


A Term of Years

by msdaphne



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Gen, but a little bit of crack is inevitable, i know this looks like a crack fic, it's more of a spite fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-10
Updated: 2019-10-12
Packaged: 2019-10-25 10:23:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 23,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17723363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/msdaphne/pseuds/msdaphne
Summary: This story was inspired bythe mock court-martial of Poe Dameronstaged at SDCC in 2018. I appreciate all the hard work and creativity involved in a performance like this, really, I do.But I also love Poe v much, and the verdict there just burned a hole in my heart.My immediate, flippant response was,well, everyone knows the Star Trek universe has its collective shit together rather better than the GFFA. Maybe Poe will come back and school these assholes in democracy and diplomacy and sustainability and the innate rights of sentient beings.Since no one else was writing about this turn of events, I guess I have to try to do it myself...





	1. the court-martial of poe dameron

**Author's Note:**

> So, some caveats:
> 
> I. The author is starting grad school in the fall, so updates will probably slow way down at that point. I do have an endgame in mind, but it's hard to see myself wrapping it up before IX comes out.
> 
> 2\. I grew up on Star Trek every bit as much as Star Wars, and I think it did more to shape my general attitude and ethics in life. But I don't _love_ it the same way, you know what I mean? I never got into the fandom, like, at all. Expect me to play fast and loose with the timeline, but I will try to do right by the various ST cultures. Just remember that this wasn't _my_ harebrained idea. I'm just the idiot who decided to run with it.
> 
> 3\. The premise of this fic is that our hero has been sentenced to a brutal prison colony in another galaxy. While there is NO rape/non-con in this fic, the possible threat thereof will be acknowledged, in vague and non-explicit terms. Chapter 2 is particularly prickly in this regard, but you can skip to a synopsis in the end notes of that chapter. Any further mention of that fear will be fleeting.
> 
> 4\. Reader feedback is very welcome. I try to drop hints here and there as to where the story might be going, but I never know if they're too heavy or too subtle unless someone tells me. If something doesn't make sense, don't be afraid to ask.

* * *

 

There were two likely scenarios, and Poe didn't like either of them.

The first, and highly unlikely, was execution. It was unlikely because they'd be idiots to squander a resource like himself. But he had something of a record when it came to butting up against authority, and there was a chance they'd sacrifice him to preserve discipline. To make an example of him, a warning to the next asshole who thought they knew better than their superior officers.

Lucky for him, he'd learned a long time ago not to admit the sheer imminence of sudden death into his heart, or he never would have taken his second solo flight.

The second scenario was the one he'd resigned himself to over the last cycle, pacing in the brig. They'd bust him down to Lieutenant and ground him for a while. They'd make him a fucking safety officer, like he'd broken his spine in a crash or something. It would be hell, watching other pilots go out and risk their lives, with his signature on their repair logs. It would be hell for a few weeks, until they were satisfied that he'd learned whatever lesson he was meant to learn. They'd be idiots to ground him even for that long, but he understood the principle.

 

* * *

 

Poe's interview with his advocate hadn't gone well. He'd tried to recount the events on the Raddus professionally, eating as much blame as he could swallow. _I shouldn't have this_ and _maybe I shouldn't have that_ , but after all... _we were all going to die. She was doing exactly what an infiltrator would do. I know I was probably being paranoid, but... I've tangled with their agents before. I have good reason to be paranoid._

And the lawyer, who was on his side, after all, had wanted to know about that. _I understand you'd just returned from a... rather significant mission?_

 _Can't talk about it, I'm sorry_. But Leia had come through in spades, giving the advocate a record of Poe's debrief with only a few untarnished names redacted. Before he knew it, he was raving at the poor guy like he was his fucking therapist or something.

_Have you ever been inside a star destroyer? Do you have any idea? How many fighters live in just one of those hangars?_

About how everything happened so fast and he was so intent on finding Bee that it hadn't really sunk in, what Finn had said in the midst of the firefight. _The only name they ever gave me_. It had come back to him, striking through the desert, concussed and about three steps from heat stroke. _He must have had a name before he enlisted_. But not much had made sense at that point, and some survival instinct warned him that he'd already had the rug pulled out from under him enough times for one day. Two days, whatever.

It had only sunk in later. Too late. After Starkiller.

 _After_ , he'd screamed at the clean-cut young lawyer, pulling his hair, grinding his teeth; his face was red and soaked with tears. _I didn't get it until after!_

After he'd murdered ten thousand people that had been conscripted as children.

No, the interview hadn't gone well.

 

* * *

 

The advocate presented to the court the same maelstrom of jargon Poe had signed off on. He'd more or less been able to parse each individual statement, but couldn't for the life of him add them up to a coherent picture that matched his own.

Leia gave a glowing account of his character and dedication, but she couldn't dispute the facts. After the final arguments were made, the Colonel called her up to a bench conference with the advocate and the prosecutor, and that seemed like a good sign, at least.

They talked for a few minutes, and then the advocate returned and patted him on the back.

"Good?" Poe asked, hopefully.

"The Colonel says you sound like a very brave man."

 _Ooh, no_. Poe grimaced.

"Did he say it like he meant it? Or as a euphemism for _desperate and paranoid_?"

"No, he. He sounded like he meant it."

Poe closed his eyes, and tried to go to his calm place. All that biofeedback and meditation stuff that he should have been doing more of, all these years. He didn't really think they'd execute him. But if that was the sentence, he'd be doing a whole lotta meditating over the next couple of days, getting in touch with the luminous aspect of the Force that he'd soon be joining.

 

He closed his eyes and breathed, until the advocate grasped his elbow, and they stood up. He stood at attention and held his head high through a preamble that was- well, not particularly flattering.

_Please. Don't be stupid._

"I hereby sentence the defendant to ten-"

Oh, merciful skies.

_Weeks? Please don't say months, please-_

"-years."

No, clearly words weren't working correctly in his brain right now.

"In the penal colony-"

No, _no no no no no_ , that wasn't one of the options-

"-at Rura Penthe."

Poe blinked. Frowned. Blinked some more. The name rolled around in his ears, searching for a home in his brain.

_Where?_

Poe had been studying star charts since he was old enough to read, and he'd never heard of such a place. Apparently, no one else had, either, because the whispers behind him in the gallery coalesced into a collective question, _Where? Where is that?_

He looked to the advocate, who held out empty palms before leaning in to whisper, "I've never heard of it either. There are a lot of private little colonies, though. Resort prisons, we call them. For people of your... distinction."

"I don't want that."

"I'll find out what I can. We can always appeal."

"Yeah. Thanks."

He looked to Leia in the witness row, and... oh, shit. She was fucking _ashen_. He felt his armpits prickling, felt a stone growing in his stomach. He nudged the advocate and nodded in her direction.

"I'll... uh. I'll find out what I can."

Shit.

The bailiffs were approaching to haul him back to the brig. He tried desperately to make eye contact with Leia, but she didn't see him. She was glaring at the judge with the focus and fury of a Death Star.

Shit. This didn't look good. This... this looked pretty bad.

 

* * *

 


	2. inprocessing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: this chapter is rock bottom for this fic. It describes Poe's processing into the Naval detention system as a convict. No Archive warnings apply, but it does show a pretty ugly side of human nature. If you or anyone you love have been through this process, consider this chapter potentially triggering. 
> 
> You can skip to the End Notes for a brief recap of this chapter and not really miss anything plot-wise. I promise that this episode does NOT represent the overall tone of this story!

* * *

 

From the moment he was convicted, everything changed. He'd walked into the hearing room under his own power, with his advocate by his side and a bevy of armed guards surrounding them at a respectful distance. But now they clapped binders on his wrists and shoved him roughly, as if he were resisting. Which he wasn't. The binders seemed intended more to embarrass than to restrain him, since it was merely a two minute hustle through secure corridors to the inprocessing area, where they were briefly taken right off again in order to strip him of the dress uniform he'd worn for the trial.

Poe had never been particularly fond of it; it was nowhere near as flattering as his Navy uniform had been. Well-fitted formal wear was a pretty low budget priority for a paramilitary outfit like the Resistance. Still, it hurt to see the nicest clothes he owned tossed carelessly on the floor, medals and all. It wasn't just an insult to him personally, but to the Resistance. And now that they'd claimed the cause of the Republic, along with those surviving Navy units that had remained loyal, it seemed like an insult to the Republic itself.

He supposed that was the point. _He_ was the one who had sullied the uniform and the faith it represented.

Or maybe he was overestimating the guards' capacity for visual metaphor.

At least they let him keep his shorts, after a rough but efficient cavity search. He got why they needed to look behind his teeth for a suicide amp. But he'd been in the brig for a day and a half already; if they really thought he had a bomb up his ass, then they knew something about explosives technology that no one in his _guerrilla fucking navy_ knew.

"Was it good for you, at least?" he asked the nurse. It came out dull, with a fraction of the humour of the _Good job_ he'd offered to that stormtrooper on Jakku. He wasn't even sure whose ears it was intended for; it was simply a reflex. The disgust on the nurse's face as she peeled off her gloves told him pretty plainly that it wasn't.

 

The next room was harshly lit and smelled of chemicals, and the guy waiting there looked real unhappy. He waved a datapad angrily at the nurse and guards.

"Seems the traitor here has some friends in high places."

"I'm not a traitor," Poe growled.

"I don't know whose dick you sucked to get this kind of treatment, but you're one lucky sonofabitch." He strode across the room and grabbed Poe by the hair. "You get to keep this fucking mess."

"Doesn't matter to me. I could use a trim."

"Oh, you don't think it matters?" The guy- _barber? orderly? run-of-the-mill sadist_?- craned Poe's head back to look up at him. "I guess you don't know what happens to _fresh meat_ in penal colonies."

Kriff, he wanted nothing more in all the galaxy than to inform the leering barber that he was speaking to someone who'd once broken out of _Megalox fucking Beta_. Oh, he wanted it so bad. But alas, that mission was destined to remain classified for all eternity. Instead, he smirked up at the jerk.

"Don't imagine a haircut makes much difference, there."

The guy flushed with anger. Poe had hit a nerve; the guy obviously took sadistic pleasure in imagining that his small part in the process had an outsize effect in compounding a convict's misery. He knuckled hard into his prisoner's scalp and shoved him down to his knees.

"Still gotta inspect you for lice. You know what lice are, right? Bloodsucking little vermin that infect the population if you don't wipe 'em out. Kinda like traitors."

"The _charge_. Was _mutiny_ ," Poe gritted. "I'm _not. a fucking. traitor._ "

One of the guards kneed him in the back and told him to shut the fuck up, so he did.

 

It wasn't that his honor didn't matter to him anymore, but that other things mattered more right now. Like getting through this and seeing his advocate again, to start planning his appeal. And cooperation was the best way to make that happen as soon as possible.

He could deal with anything for a few days. With pain, with threats and insults and indignity, as long as it was temporary.

And then he was suddenly struck lightheaded, dizzy with the realization that he'd been running on _getting through this one emergency_ for... for days that felt like months already. He wished desperately to wake up back on D'Qar, before he'd even left for Jakku, so that he could go back and... and do _something_ differently this time, to do _better_. Because this wasn't supposed to be happening. None of this was supposed to be happening.

 

The barber turned back, armed with a loupe and a comb. The guards held him down while the barber attacked him with the comb, gouging his scalp and yanking up snarls. Once the guy had succeeded in prying a few tufts of hair out of his flesh, he pronounced that he only saw one louse, here.

The guards pulled him to his feet, but the barber wasn't done. He leaned in to fill Poe's ear with lurid threats of the atrocities visited upon _fresh meat_. Poe looked away and focused on the cracks in the duracrete walls. He was pretty sure that of the two of them, only one had ever set foot on a maximum security prison planet. And the crowd that had menaced Black Squadron back on Megalox Beta hadn't expressed any sordid interest. They were merely after what valuables they could harvest off the strangers.

He refused to think about what might have happened if that mission had failed. If they'd been stuck there. He stared into the far corner and tried not to listen. Truth or no, the fact that someone in this guy's position of power had such a vivid imagination was disturbing in itself.

But he wasn't afraid. He wouldn't be afraid, wouldn't allow himself to be afraid.

No, it wasn't fear that got to him. It was the exhaustion and regret, the confusion, the sense that he wasn't really here, wasn't meant to be here. And more than anything, the _hate_. The sheer hatred from these brig personnel who were, after all, soldiers first. Like he had been, like he still was, technically. The vulnerability of his bare flesh against their guns and gloves and armor was nothing next to that of being so alone, alone and despised by people that should have been his comrades. His cheeks stung and his eyes prickled, and one treacherous little tear escaped through his sinuses and out his nose. He licked it away quickly, but not quickly enough.

"Oh, are you crying, traitor?"

"I'm not a traitor." He could hear the defeat in his own voice.

"You're crying, aren't you?"

" _Obviously_."

"Well, get used to it. Traitor."

Apparently that had been the barber's goal, because he stepped away. Just as an interrogator's job was to elicit intel, this guy's job was to elicit tears. Poe licked his lip again, and one of the guards kicked his bare ankle.

"What do you say, traitor?"

"Huh?"

"The sergeant gave you some good advice, there. What do you say?"

He glared at the guard, who kicked him again and reached for her taser.

"Um. Thank? You?"

"That's right, _traitor_."

 

The last room was gleaming bright and looked a bit like a medical bay. It was also the last he saw of his shorts. He cooperated while the nurse inspected him for scabies and ringworm the like, and then the guards dragged him into an open shower. A good shower, a real hot water shower, and he hoped against hope that there might be more of these in his future. And at least they let him wash himself, although the guards watched the whole time. Afterward, he was given a thin grey smock and drawstring pants, and then it was back in the binders. They frogmarched him barefoot to a new cell, even more spartan than the first.

"Chow's at 1800. That'll give you some time to think about what you're willing to offer to get your kill amp back."

"I didn't... you saw. I never had a kill amp."

"No, you didn't, did you." The two guards grinned at one another. "Well then. Price just doubled."

"Not interested, thanks."

"Then you're stupider than you look. Traitor."

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief recap: During Poe's inprocessing, one of the guards off-handedly refers to him as a traitor. Poe reminds them that he was convicted of mutiny, not treason. Which only makes it worse; they all start calling him _traitor_ , just to get under his skin. To shore up his courage and his dignity, Poe reminds himself that he and Black Squadron once infiltrated and broke out of Megalox Beta, a supermax prison planet. (As recounted in early issues of the _Poe Dameron_ comics.)
> 
> Our buddy is in a bit of denial; he doesn't believe the sentence is really going to be carried out. He just needs to keep his head down and make it through the night until he can see his lawyer again in the morning...


	3. the current state of emergency

* * *

 

His advocate came to see him early the next morning, and the first words out of his mouth were like rays of the sun that Poe had yet to see on this planet.

"Captain Dameron," he said, and Poe felt his face melting into pitten eyes.

"That's correct, sir. They've declined to demote you further."

Oh, thank every deity in this galaxy; they'd seen reason. They knew they'd need him to fly again, at some point. Okay. It had been a shitty cycle, but there was hope. He could do this.

" _Thank you_ , Lieutenant." Poe smiled at him. "So. Where do we start with this appeal process?"

The lawyer's face clouded, and it was like fog gathering over that sunrise before it had even begun to warm him.

"You may recall, from your previous career in the Navy-"

"Let's pretend I don't."

"Apparently, sir, the NRDF Code of Justice categorically considers mutiny a capital offense, regardless of sentence. Which leaves us only one line of recourse-"

"Are you _shitting_ me?"

Strawn stared with a blank face that said he was not shitting at all.

"My senator is _dead_ , Lieutenant. My entire delegation is dead. They all are."

"Yes, sir."

 

Kriff, it was going to take days, maybe a week or more, to gather new delegations. At which point they'd have a _war_ to run, not clemency to consider for individual hothead rebels. Holy fuck, he was fucked.

"Well, good morning to you, too. Damn. So... how long do we think I'm going to have to ride this out?"

"A call has been made to seat an emergency session of the Senate within ninety days, sir."

 _"Ninety days_?"

"Yes, sir."

"Who... who's in charge until then?"

The advocate suddenly looked almost as grey as Leia had in the courtroom.

"Ah. Given the current state of emergency... sir. Yesterday, the new Joint Council of the NRDF proclaimed itself the governing body of the Galactic Republic."

"What? Like, like a _fucking junta_?"

"My understanding is that they are to be referred to as the Joint Council for the Protection of the Republic, sir."

"Protection of- you see the contradiction in terms, there, right?"

Strawn cleared his throat and looked away.

"Lemme tell you something, Lieutenant. No one in the Resistance is going to want to fight for a fucking junta. No one."

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss political matters, sir."

"You're my fucking lawyer, aren't you? And suddenly this whole fucking case is looking like a political matter!"

"Sir. Perhaps your General will be a position to be more candid. Sir."

 _When_ , he selfishly wanted to ask. _When can I see her_? But he hoped that Leia had better sense than to spare him a thought. She had more important things to deal with. If the NRDF was going to pull this kind of authoritarian bullshit, they might as well surrender to the First Order now and spare the years of violence.

 

So yeah. It was looking like he might end up seeing the inside of a penal colony, after all. But that was a hill of beans compared to what was happening _out there_.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?"

Poe was numb with shock and dismay, but had enough wits about him to mumble out a pressing request.

"Yeah. Any way you can get me a blanket or two?"

"I'll see what I can do, sir."

"Maybe even a pillow? Without me having to put out for it?"

"I'll see what I can do."

 

* * *

 

Three hours later, someone tossed a packet of rations through his door. He didn't even open it.

 

Four hours after that, a guard entered with a security droid. The droid remained by the door while she approached him with an armful of threadbare bedding. Her eyes were wide and sad and scared, and he knew why. It wasn't pity; it wasn't about him. This Joint Council declaration was frightening new territory for their generation. He met her eyes and matched her expression. She handed him the blankets and left without a word.

 

A second packet of rations meant it was probably after 1800 by now.

 

It was another two hours before they dragged him from his cell to see another visitor.

 

 

* * *

 


	4. the assignment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _It was another two hours before they dragged him from his cell to see another visitor._

* * *

 

There had been a day, after they'd first made contact with a loyal detachment, when Leia had looked hopeful again. But now she appeared just as grim as she had on Crait. They sat across the table from one another, taking in the worry and fear on one another's faces, until Poe couldn't hold it in anymore.

"A fucking junta? Seriously?"

"They claim it's provisional," she said quietly.

"Wasn't Palpatine's elevation supposed to be provisional, too?"

She narrowed her eyes in warning, and Poe took it. He was sure he saw the moment when she put off what she wanted to say, in favor of asking how they'd been treating him.

"To be frank, Ma'am?"

She nodded.

"Pretty poorly. Pretty piss fucking poorly."

"I'm so sorry, Poe."

"Honestly, if I knew... You know I was never happy being a glorified customs agent for the Navy. But if I knew this was how they treated criminals? I don't think I ever would've signed up in the first place."

"I know, Poe. I know. When I was young... we thought we were fighting to restore the Republic. But the New Republic never... never lived up to the stories my parents told."

"If I may, Ma'am?" He didn't wait for her to nod, this time. "Your parents were heroes, but they were also pretty privileged. I'm sure there was a lot of the Republic they didn't see."

He didn't mean for it to come out so hard, and he half expected her to slap him again. It felt like he might have just burned the last bridge he had left, out of bitterness and exhaustion. But she didn't slap him. She closed her eyes and hung her head, and held up her palm for patience.  _There's more to the story than you can know_ , it said.  _But now isn't the time_.

"They tried to raise me to govern fairly. But all I ever really learned was how to fight. If we survive, if we defeat the First Order... it's going to take people with more Light in their hearts than I have, to rebuild. To do better, this time."

 _To do better, this time_. Kriff, that was the thought that had obsessed him through the night, praying to wake up from this nightmare and do it all over again. It was too much. He scrubbed his eyes with his manacled hands and shook his head to clear it.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am."

"Don't you  _dare_  apologize to me, Captain."

_I'm sorry._

"I'm here to discuss your immediate future," she continued, with an almost imperceptible softening.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'd like to know more about my immediate future. What are the chances they're gonna hold me here until this  _new Senat_ e gets around to me?" He dragged out the words  _new Senate_  sarcastically, because he doubted it would ever really happen, now, and she didn't contradict him.

"They're shipping you out tomorrow, Poe. There won't be an appeal."

"Fuck." He closed his eyes. It wasn't a surprise. It was just the confirmation of what he'd been expecting since the morning.

"You know they never trusted us. They never trusted  _me_. They're working with us now because they have to, but they don't trust us."

"So they're making an example of me."

"A warning. A warning to the entire Resistance. A warning to me."

"Yeah, I get it."

"I'm sorry, Poe. I've been meeting with members of the Joint Council all day. I'm sorry."

"Fuck, Leia. Don't burn your cred on me. Worry about fucking democracy. I'll... I'll survive."

"Poe..."

"So where is this place, anyway?" He tried to sound curious and chipper, but it came out viciously. "Rura Penthe? Never even heard of it. Never seen it on any fucking chart."

"Unfortunately, there isn't much I can tell you right now." Her eyes darted pointedly around the room, at the guards by the door and the surveillance devices overhead.

"Not making me feel better, here, Leia. I saw the look on your face in there."

The look on her face now was almost as bad. She was strong, and she was canny. To see her patently mustering her resolve like this was unnerving.

"I want you to do something for me, Poe."

"Anything, Ma'am. Whatever you need. Whatever," he spread his fingers; he couldn't express very much in the binders.  _Whatever it takes_. Reality had shifted so profoundly that he was already hoping she could somehow cut his sentence down to  _five_  years.

She looked past his hands, past the desperate question in his eyes. For a moment, he could see the years of grief on her face, a grief that he'd always known he might contribute to someday. And then her chin lifted, and the grief gave way to the fire and steel he recognized so well. She looked at him directly.

"I want you to consider this an assignment."

He blinked at her with eyes that were already feeling the sting of betrayal, before her choice of words sunk in. He glanced at the surveillance devices and back at her, questioning.

"Listen to me carefully, Captain. This is a  _black_  hour for the galaxy. And you are but  _one_  man. Do you understand me, Captain?"

 _Black One_. His call sign. So... so this was a mission?

"General?" he whispered. She merely dipped her chin, an imperious, regal gesture that said  _go forth, for I am your queen_.

Even as his spine lifted itself to the call of duty, his heart burned with homesickness for their briefings back on D'Qar. In her boots and trousers and work vest, she'd lean against a wall and smile at him with mischief in her eyes.  _Good question, Commander. I like the way you think. That's why I trust you with this_.

But they were here, now, and this was the catastrophe they'd been preparing for all that time. His mind reeled with a whole new shock, the shock of landing unexpectedly on something solid, after days and days of clawing at earth that crumbled under his own weight.

A mission.

 

He nodded while the idea settled. Some details would be nice. Did she want him to infiltrate this mysterious prison and record abuses? Lead a revolt? Recruit a team of convicts to fight for the provisional government- or perhaps against it? Was she expecting him to break out again? Hell, he'd gone into Megalox Beta with a team and a plan and schematics and some hefty bribes backing them up, and they still barely got out alive.

He felt a singular lack of confidence, but the very idea that he was meant to accomplish something warmed him, made his blood flow again. Out of nowhere, his stomach growled.

"Have they been feeding you?"

"Haven't had much of an appetite, to be honest."

"Sounds like you do now." She actually smiled a little.

"Apparently." He tried to smile back.

"You should eat. You're going to need it."

"Leia, kriff. What the hell is this place?  _Where_  is it?"

"I don't know, Poe. I'm sorry."

"Leia,  _I saw your face in there_ , don't bullshit me."

"Poe." She finally reached across the table to take his hands, and leaned as close as she could. "We don't even know," she started, and then mouthed the words _if it exists_.

What? He squinted at her in confusion. That couldn't be right. He'd been sentenced to someplace that might not even exist? But-- he found himself doing it again, nodding slowly as he tried to make sense of the garbled secret briefing he was getting.

"So the Colonel expects me to-" he mouthed the words  _find it?_

She smirked, although her eyes were bitter.

"No, Poe. He expects you to die."

 

It would have been chilling, but there was that look on her face,  _that look_ , a hint of that slyness he knew and loved and  _trusted_ , peeking out through the grief. Expected him to die, huh? Well, apparently the Colonel didn't know Poe Dameron very well.

"Hope he handles disappointment well."

She smiled at him then, a warm smile that said she had faith in him; she'd always had faith in him. He knew then that he could do this for her- whatever it was, and he had no fucking idea what it was. But he could do it. Would do it. She held his hands tightly for a moment, and then grew serious again.

"I'll give them your regards," she said. There was a searing intensity in her eyes; it said that she'd tell his closest comrades more than she could tell him, here. He was so grateful for it, grateful that they'd know that he wasn't just rotting somewhere. Because however long this mission took- weeks, months, or even years- there was a war on, and a good chance that some of them wouldn't live to see the next Lifeday, let alone to see his face again.

He was grateful for it. He just wished... he just wished his dad could know. Kriff, there they were again, the bastards. He wiped his eyes. But Leia, kriffing Leia always had a plan. No wonder she was his hero.

"After this, I'll be taking a few days to scout some of our old facilities. My first stop will be in the Gordian Reach."

" _Oh, Leia_ ," he gasped. "You don't have to-"

"I do have to. We're going to take a nice long walk, out in the fresh air. And let me tell you something, Captain Dameron. He's proud of you. He has good reason to be proud of you. And he always  _will_  be proud of you."

"Thank you, Ma'am."

"I'm proud of you, too, Poe."

He sucked in a deep breath, and drew himself up.

"General Organa. It's been the greatest honor of my life to serve under your command. I'm sorry that I fucked up. I only ever tried to do what was right. What you would do. I'm sorry."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Who said anything about being released from my command?"

His heart swelled in his chest.

"I look forward to speaking to you again, Captain. Whenever that may be."

" _Yes_ , Ma'am. I as well, Ma'am." Kriff, he still had so many questions, but-- she trusted him. She trusted him, and he trusted her. And what else was there, really?

"I want you to remember something. Remember that I love you. That we  _all_  love you."

"Kriff, I love you too, Leia. Shit, I'm sorry, that was inappropriate." He wiped his cheeks on his shoulders.

"It's not inappropriate."

"Good, because I do."

"The Force is with you, Poe."

"I know."

"Do you?"

"I mean," he shrugged.

"I need you to know it. I need you to believe it.  _The Force is with you_."

"The Force is with me," he whispered.

"The Force is with you."

He cleared his throat, took a breath, and said it again, louder.

"The Force is with me."

"It's with all of us, with every living being. It flows within us and between us, and it binds us together. I will always be with you, Poe, wherever you are."

 

 

* * *

 

 

Leia Organa stepped out into the corridor and offered a haughty nod to her prison escort. She carried an invisible circlet of gold atop her head, the only thing that kept her chin up. The thing that kept her from crashing into the wall in fury and despair.

She'd done everything she could. She'd known every member of the new council for years, if not decades. She'd spoken to every one of them this day, and they'd made their warning clear. Very clear. If they could do this to Poe- her protegé, more of a son to her than her own child had ever been- if they could do this to him, then it was only a matter of time for anyone else who resisted. The purge had begun.

Because the brutal fact was this: of course he was going to die. It was almost inconceivable that he might somehow survive the remote, mysterious Anomaly that had already claimed the lives of dozens of explorers. That eerie hole in space, like some monstrous hyperlane of the ancient gods.

One of the most closely guarded secrets in the Galaxy, it was almost certainly as unknown to the judge as it was to his convict. Someone had put that name in his ear, and the list of possible someones had recently been cut quite short. 

 

But at least she'd given Poe this much. At least he'd die with hope and love in his heart. Because Poe Dameron without hope in his heart was something she'd seen just once, and the thought of him dying that way was just too much to bear.

 

* * *

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler: he doesn't die.


	5. transport

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mysteries abound.

* * *

 

Poe dutifully choked down his prison rations, because it was all that was in his power to do to prepare himself for this blank slate of a mission. He didn't have enough information, and he didn't have enough resources. All he really had was faith. He trusted her. It was all he had to go on, and he repeated it like a mantra to calm himself. He trusted her. He trusted her.

They'd let her put some things together for him: His own boots, praise the suns. Sturdy trousers, civilian blouse. Fresh, clean undergarments. His own belt- sans holster, of course. Muran's jacket, the one that rode up his hips, the one he'd been wearing since giving his favorite one to Finn. A small parcel of personal effects, including a pretty decent sabacc deck- always handy in prison, he supposed. A thousand credits, for whatever that was worth. A datapad full of adventure and romance stories, which it turned out he was not allowed to keep. And something small and dense, wrapped in a note which read, 

_He'll keep it safe. In the meantime, this might be more helpful to you. It's not for luck. It's for courage. May the Force be with you._

He opened the packet and found a necklace. Not the fine one he'd worn for years, but something heavier. Instead of his mother's ring, a thick, oblong ring of durasteel dangled from it. There was a weld point in it, as if it had once been part of a chain... He felt his eyes widening as he grasped the meaning of the piece of history in his hand. He quickly slipped it over his head and under his shirt before the guard could see the look on his face.

He couldn't help but wonder if there was a secret message in it. Was he supposed to kill someone? Would he know who when he saw them? Or... was it... All the filthy things the barber had said slithered through his flesh like black slime. He didn't want to think about it. But if she could endure such humiliations and live to fight again, then he could, too.

 _For courage_ , he thought, holding the link to his heart, under his palm. _For courage_.

 

* * *

 

He didn't know what he expected a prison transport to look like, but it wasn't an anonymous-looking YT-2000. As the guards hustled him up the cargo ramp, he caught the pilots conferring with a detention officer. He looked away; he could only imagine what they were thinking.

He expected another cell on the ship, but two guards brought him to the main cabin, pushed him down onto a passenger bench, and activated the mag cuffs on his wrists and ankles. They sat across from him, looking pretty disgruntled with their assignment. It was awkward, sitting so close and not talking, but he kept his mouth shut. Maybe later, if the flight was long enough, they'd get bored enough to talk to him. He put his head back and closed his eyes and listened to the familiar sounds of flight prep.

 

* * *

 

Within moments of hitting hyperspace, the pilot came back through the hatch and stood in front of him. She was a few years older than him and wore a Commander's insignia. This gig seemed a few rungs below her rank, and he hoped she didn't resent him for it. He looked straight through her, trying not to look like he was bracing himself for a blow.

"Kriff, it really is you."

"In the flesh." He flattened his right hand in its cuff, indicating that he would salute if he could.

"Commander Pryva Duvell." She looked over his restraints with disdain. "You were at the academy with my brother Pryll."

"I was, yeah. Smart kid. How is he? Still flying?"

"He flew for a while. Til they promoted him right out of the cockpit."

"Ouch. Too smart for his own good, huh?"

Her jaw clenched, and her eyes narrowed over a sudden glint of moisture.

"Aw, shit."

"He was stationed in the capital."

"I'm sorry."

"He admired you, you know."

"Likewise. Damn. He was a good guy. Good friend. Good pilot. I'm sorry."

"Is it true? That you're the one who took Starkiller down?"

" _What_?" the guards scoffed in unison, incredulous.

 

Poe felt it like an accusation. _You're the one who killed all those brainwashed prisoners_. He wanted to tell them the truth. He wanted to tell everyone. But this wasn't the time or place. Not with the fresh grief shining in her eyes over his dead classmate. Not with the guards who would take his words as demoralizing propaganda, further evidence of the supposedly treasonous intent that everyone seemed to be ascribing to his actions.

Not with a mission to accomplish.

Whatever that mission was.

"I fired the shot, but I didn't do it alone. It took everything we had. Two squadrons went out. Sixteen starfighters. Sixteen pilots and their astromechs. Eight came back."

"Kriff, I'm sorry."

"Me, too."

"Are you serious?" one of the guards asked. " _You're_ the one who took that thing out?"

"My _unit_ took it out," Poe insisted. "My recon team. My ops team. My wing. _We_ took it out."

"Sir, I had family on H1."

"I just rotated off of there a few months ago," added the other guard, in a faint voice.

"The fuck happened? Why did you have to _mutiny_?"

Since the trial, he'd been a little fuzzy on that himself. His head had been filled with alternative courses of action that he might have taken if he hadn't been so desperate. But he was with it enough to catch the _have to_ in the question, and the _Sir_ that had previously been absent.

"Long story."

"It's a long trip," Duvell replied.

"Don't suppose you can tell me how long."

She cut her eyes toward the guards. Kriff, there was so much going on over his head, here. He felt like he was drowning in secrets.

"Ma'am?" the first guard asked. "I wouldn't mind an ETA myself. They didn't tell us much."

"Tell you what, Sergeant. I'd like a few minutes alone with Captain Dameron, here."

"Ma'am, we're under orders to keep eyes on him."

"My eyes are on him."

The guards looked at one another nervously.

"He's unarmed. He's in mag cuffs, which I can tell you right now are _not_ staying on for the duration of this flight."

"Shit, Ma'am, where we going, anyway?"

She jerked her thumb toward the hatch. They stood up and slouched toward it reluctantly. They stopped in the hatchway and looked back at her.

"Five days out, five days back."

They stared at her gog-eyed for a moment, and then turned through the hatchway, swearing in dismay. When the door closed, she dropped heavily onto the bench across from Poe.

 

Poe, who was busy calculating where in the hell could take that long to get to, and coming to the conclusion that they must be headed into the unknown regions- the heart of First Order territory. Things were just starting to make a lick of sense, until she spoke again.

"I know I shouldn't ask."

"Ask all you want. Don't have many answers for ya."

"I know you probably can't tell me why you're on my run, but what in the name of the ass side of the moon are you still doing in cuffs?"

"Uh. Convicted mutineer?"

"Sure. Look, I know you can't tell me shit and I'm not gonna try too hard. But Force, Dameron, I've been doing this damned route for ten fucking years and I just... I really want to know what's in there."

"You... what? I was hoping you could tell _me_."

"Tell _you_?"

"Yeah, my briefing was pretty, uh, pretty inadequate. Pretty constrained by all the surveillance in the fucking _brig_ I was in at the time."

She frowned at him.

"They didn't brief you before the whole gnaf and pony show?"

"N-no. That. That was real. I think this is like, a target of opportunity. Anything you can tell me would really help me out, here."

She suddenly looked deeply worried.

"And, wait, what do you mean you've been doing this for ten years? When I was in the Navy I _begged_ them to let me do recon in the unknown regions. What's going on out there? We need to know! Kriff, we could have found the fucking Starkiller before it deployed! What-"

"We're not headed to the unknown regions."

"We- we're not?"

"No, and this isn't a recon path. This is a supply run."

"To _where_?!"

"A set of coordinates. A freighter meets us, our droids deliver cargo, theirs transfer waste. Sometimes we transport personnel. More than we ever bring back, I'll tell you that. None of them ever talk. I didn't really expect you to, either. But fuck, the whole galaxy's erupting around us. Figured I could at least ask."

Poe's hand jerked in the restraints, in an impulse to rub his forehead.

"I'm sorry, Dameron. We'll get those off as soon as we can."

"Yeah, five days, kriff. What do you usually do with prisoners?"

She shook her head, looking as bewildered as he felt.

"Never had one before."

"What do you mean? I was told I was being transported to a prison colony."

"I saw that. Figured it was a cover story. Sure as hell never heard of the place."

"The fuck?"

 

He was even more confused than before, but a sliver of hope presented itself. Maybe there was no prison colony, after all. Maybe this cover was so deep they hadn't even let him in on it. He snuffed it out before he could get too attached to it.

"So where are these coordinates?"

She looked in on herself for a while before answering. When she did, she nodded at the hatch behind which the guards waited.

"They can't know."

"Of course."

"I mean it. There's a reason only one crew does this run. If it leaks, I don't get a court-martial. I get a bolt in the head, no questions asked."

"Shit, Duvell, don't tell me, then. I'll find out soon enough."

"Course, the way things are going, my director might be dead before I get back."

"I don't need to know."

"You deserve to know."

He shrugged, and she took one last moment to decide.

"The coordinates are in the core."

Huh?

But they were already in the core, and there were no two points that were more than a day's journey... Poe's mouth opened slowly, unable to ask the unthinkably impossible question, hoping that exhaustion had somehow scrambled all the charts in his brain.

"The deep core," she confirmed, watching the thoughts cross his face.

"The..."

"Yeah."

The deep core was a minefield of gravity wells and Force projections. It had been explored and abandoned, written off as even more unknowable than the unknown regions. Like that fringe of the galaxy, it had been at times a lode for the ambitious and a haven for the desperate. But few had returned, and fewer still had returned psychologically intact. Poe had grown up in the Gordian Reach, a pretty intense gravitational playground of its own. It had been fun, really. But it was nothing like the _deep fucking core_.

"Fuck, Duvell."

"Yeah."

"And you've been doing it for ten years?"

"Yep."

"What... the fuck is in there?"

"Damned if I know. Like I said, I was kinda hoping you could tell me."

 

* * *

  


 


	6. the heart of all that is known

* * *

 

After that conversation, Poe was more confused than before, but in all other respects the trip improved considerably.

As soon as Duvell opened the hatch again, the guards rushed back in, hastening to release the mag cuffs and apologizing as they did. Poe assured them that they'd just been doing their jobs, and shook their hands as they belatedly introduced themselves as Sergeant Paije and Corporal Curry. And then he took in the figure behind them; he knew her.

"Lacey!"

"Dameron." She smiled, and the genuine twinkle in her eyes said that she, too, had assumed that the court-martial had been some kind of a ruse. Hell, at this point, he was tempted to start believing it himself. He jumped up to hug her. Their assignments to Mirren had only briefly overlapped; they'd barely known one another. But it felt like so long since someone had actually been _happy to see him_ \- only a few days, really, but so much had happened in those days.

They wanted to know _everything_ about the Resistance's recent clashes with the First Order, but first, the other pilots wanted to meet him, too.

 _Other_ pilots? But of course, ten days through some of the rockiest, most perilous flying ever recorded. Two beings in the cockpit, six hour shifts. There were four of them, all experienced pilots and navigators; all good mechanics, too, because they couldn't exactly put in a call for assistance where they were going. They were an elite crew, and they were on their own.

Despite everything, Poe had to admit he was curious. Maybe even excited. Okay, if he was _really_ honest? He was hoping they might let him sit up front at some point.

 

* * *

 

They were only in hyperspace for a few hours. The next couple of days would be a little bumpy, the pilots admitted, but livable. After that...

"I hope you have strong stomachs," Lacey grinned at the guards. Their wan faces suggested that no, they had not been selected for this duty on the basis of their gastric integrity.

 

* * *

 

The constraints of his current mission included being a well-behaved prisoner, and it was surprisingly calming. He didn't rant at them like he had at his lawyer. He spun his yarn out slowly, over tea and rations, and later over the dejarik table. He told them everything they _could_ know, about the opening battles of the war. He even shared some of his feelings. He told them of the angel that had rescued him, of the runaways that had been adopted by Han and Chewbacca.

He told them about the tracking technology, of course, and that the mission to disable it had been desperate at best. And he got something off his chest that had been weighing on him for days:

"Amilyn Holdo was a tactician. She never should have been put in that position. Not saying I should have, either. No one should have been in that position. I wish I couId have worked with her. I wish she was still alive, and that I wasn't here, and that we were working together right now. I wish I could have actually known her."

He told them what Luke Skywalker had done to shelter the last spark of hope, and warned them not to let a paranoid Republic be the ones to snuff it out. Somewhere in there, he casually let it slip that Finn had been raised by the Order since toddlerhood, and kept talking, pretending not to notice the looks they were exchanging.

"Wait, Captain, hold up, wait. What do you mean, _never had a name_?"

 _See? That's how it's done_ , he thought.

  

* * *

 

They passed the time playing games and sharing stories and passing scuttlebutt. And, unfortunately, nursing the guards' stomachs past occasional grav turbulence. Poe Dameron was a fighter pilot; he didn't _get_ space sick. But by the third day he was experiencing some... weirdness of his own.

The first time, he actually looked up at the sound of L'ulo's voice. The second time, it was Jess's voice, but he managed not to react to it.

Surely he wasn't losing his mind just yet. Auditory hallucinations had to be a symptom of... something. It wasn't like he couldn't discern them from reality. The people he loved and admired spoke to him in his head all the time. The disconcerting thing here was that they seemed to be coming from _outside_ his head. He supposed his brain had every right to act out, though, after everything that had been thrown at it recently.

He didn't let on. When the others noticed these abrupt distractions, he just shook his head and said he was tired. He couldn't let on; if they thought he was cracking up they might put him back in restraints, for  his own safety as much as theirs.

There were to be no more restraints, however. Once the guards realized who they were escorting, and had cottoned on to the pilots' belief that there was something bigger going on, they were abashed at their role in all this. For the first couple of days he insisted they escort him to the fresher, although they lingered further and further down the corridor until they gave up on it entirely. Eventually they even offered to let him sleep alone. No, he said, he respected that they had a job to do. He didn't want to admit that he didn't particularly want to be alone with his uncertainty- or with the intermittent voices.

 

By the fourth day it was a moot point anyway. The turbulence had gotten more frequent and more intense. The guards couldn't have kept eyes on him if they wanted to; they were laid out flat with nausea. The voices seemed to have been a passing spell, at least. But even Poe had to admit that he'd lost his appetite. Especially when he was disposing of the poor guards' barf sacks, clinging to the walls as he carried them to the chute.

During a lull, Major Haier, one of the pilots and the chief medic, came into the bunkroom with a medkit. This was the point in the journey where he gave everyone nutrient drips, he said, since soon even the experienced space jockeys wouldn't be able to hold anything down.

"You mean it gets _worse_?" Curry asked with a sob in his throat.

"Fraid so."

"Can you put anything in it for the spins?" Paije groaned.

"Sure, but it'll knock you out."

"Force, _please_."

 _What about your prisoner_ , Poe wanted to ask, but they were really suffering and it didn't seem fair to tease them.

"Dameron? Want a little spike of the good stuff?"

"Actually. I was kind of hoping for a kiddie ride."

"Wondering when you'd ask. Jumpseat's all yours." Haier handed Poe a tiny syringe. "You know where to put that if you need it. Just make sure you're strapped in and out of the way, first."

"Copy that. Thanks, doc."

Haier offered a mock salute to the guards, who were halfway to bliss already.

"See you boys in six. Imma rack out."

He left, leaving Poe considering the syringe. He was a long way from that dirtside brig, that was for sure. He could- _he could_ \- use the dose to knock out one of the pilots. Overpower the other, and hijack the ship. He could. He wasn't going to; he had a mission to accomplish. But it was an entertaining thought.

Besides, he was probably going to need the dose himself.

 

* * *

 

He did need it.

Duvell and Bekwik showed him vaguely where they were in relation to some of the famous landmarks that had been noted in the deep core over the millenniums. Vaguely, because gravity was so lumpy here that space itself couldn't be measured consistently. More an art than a science, Duvell said.

Poe asked if any of the crew were Force sensitive. No, they laughed. The deep core was riddled with Force projections that had absolutely _fucked_ with the minds of earlier explorers. They had been selected in part for their relative deafness to the Force.

Oh. Interesting.

 

While Poe mulled that over, alerts were growing more insistent.

"Strapped in, Dameron?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Coming up on what we call the Wasps' Nest, here, and then it's straight into the Long Slide. Don't get sick in my cockpit."

"Aye, Ma'am."

 

It was the wildest ride of his life, and somewhere between clinging for dear life to the frame of the hatchway and remembering to breathe, he thought it might actually be fun, if he were going into it well-rested. He wasn't, though, and by the end of the Long Slide he felt like his uterus was in his throat. It was several minutes of panting at the ceiling in a cold sweat later when he realized that _that_ wasn't the right word; he didn't have a uterus. Bladder! That's what it was; his bladder was in his throat.

"How you doing back there?"

"Unh. That was some fancy flying, guys."

"Gonna hang in for the Lightquake?"

"Is that, uh... is that what it sounds like?"

"Doesn't actually quake. That's just what we call it. It's beautiful. You gotta see it."

"Real pretty," Bekwik agreed.

"Why not. When am I gonna get another chance, right?"

"Well, hopefully once."

"Right. Right." He closed his eyes. "Tell me when we get there."

 

 

" _Dameron_ ," Duvell whispered. Poe opened his eyes and saw a little wisp of violet flash past the cockpit.

"Mmm."

A few more flashes somehow appeared as purple and gold at once, as if maybe his eyes weren't built to apprehend their true colors.

"That's cool."

The pilots didn't answer... wait, was there a pattern to the lights? It was almost like... like they were _saying_ something, like they were trying to draw them in.  _I'm not sure we should go_ , Poe thought. And then the viewport lit up like some digital rainbow hyperlane, and he was sure there were words in it if they could just slow down long enough to read them or hear them or...

 

 _Beautiful_ wasn't even the word for it.

Stunning.

Mesmerizing.

Everything.

 

He'd been lost in it for some unaccountable period of time- minutes? Hours?

Always?

When it came over him, it was so clear.

 _Why_.

Why he was.

Why sentience was, why life itself was.

He'd never known such euphoria, such peace, such certainty.

 

It didn't even occur to him to try to hold on to it, until the light stretched itself thin, until it was slipping past them and out of his grasp.

 

And if he'd thought he'd ever fucked up before--

How could he have let it go? He'd been _bathed_ in it, bathed in peace and understanding, in what every living being needed to know, and he needed to _bring it to them_ , he needed to _share it with them_ , but he'd let it slip past him and now it was gone.

It was gone, and with it his reason for being- the reason for _anything_ to be- and his heart was as black and empty as the space beyond the viewport of the silly little can that moved their insignificant little bodies through the lifeless heart of the galaxy.

 

"Pretty, huh?" Duvell sighed.

Poe sobbed in response.

"Shit, Dameron. Thought you said you weren't sensitive?"

"I."

_I'm not?_

"Damn. Might be a good time to grab some qeks, buddy."

 _Why, so you can throw me out the airlock and forget I ever existed_ , he thought. And then he grabbed on to that like a lifeline, because _that_ , at least, was familiar. That wasn't the Force talking, that was his body talking. He knew where that came from. Classic adrenaline crash, he knew the drill. Yeah, he should take his drugs and go to sleep like a good pilot.

"Okay. I'm sorry. Thanks for the ride."

"Sweet dreams, Dameron."

"Fly safe, guys."

He stumbled back to the bunkroom, strapped himself in, and sunk the syringe into the side port under the nutrient pack strapped to his arm.

 

* * *

 

As they counted down the final hours, the crew and guards tried to disguise their increasingly patent instincts to protect their charge. They were soldiers, and they knew better than to be outright solicitous. Instead, they glossed over their feelings with humor. It became a running joke that Paije and Curry intended to elope, to escort Poe into the great unknown, just to get out of the long and nauseating return trip.

Paije insisted that Poe take his lucky Star card, which prompted Curry to pull out his trap-bone set and push it into Poe's hand. Lacey wanted him to have her lucky dice. After all, they reasoned, games were universal to every race and class in the known galaxy. Games bridged languages and cultures. Games revealed one's character. Games were how one made friends and earned respect, whether in prison or the Senate dining hall or anywhere in between. They were right, and he accepted the gifts with genuine gratitude.

 

* * *

 

Two hours out from the coordinates, Duvell took him to her quarters. She opened a drawer, revealing a collection of small personal weapons.

"Take one, at least. Whatever you're comfortable with."

"Shit."

A little twenty-shot blaster? How far would that get him? A single grenade, he supposed, was the best suicide game going, if it came to that. She picked up a small vibroblade.

"It's small, but the charge lasts forever."

He took it and flicked it on.

"Consider it a tool."

He flicked it off, rolled it through his fingers.

"You should have something. You can always, you know." She pointed her thumb at her jugular vein and clucked. _You can always kill yourself with it_. She was a pilot; she'd been through the same training he had.

"Thank you. I hope I don't need it, but thank you."

 

* * *

 

He was sweating enough as it was, but the worst part was having to wait while the droids exchanged cargo. He sat holding Lacey's hand, listening to the thunks and screeches, until a chime sounded and the manifest display requested personnel transfer. He hugged them all, even the guards. Curry told him to _kick their asses, Captain_ , whoever they were. Duvell held his shoulder and threatened to go in after him. He hugged Lacey last, and then looked her in the eye.

"Whatever happens. Keep it alive. Keep the spark alive."

 _Always,_ they swore in unison. Poe held his hand over his heart, feeling the link of chain through his shirt.

"May the Force be with you."

 _May the Force be with you_ , they said, as a chorus. He donned his oxygen mask, and climbed down into the hold.

 

 

* * *

  


	7. well, shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poe finally learns _something_ about his mysterious destination.

* * *

 

It was eerie, walking through the secured hold. Poe nodded at the cargo droids out of habit, despite knowing that he would get no greeting in return but the silent light of their security protocol indicators. He followed a scuffed gripway to the mated cargo hatches. Climbed down the twisting rungs, and then up, pausing to orient himself to the new ship's gravity field. A medical droid was waiting for him.

"Hey," he said, with a shy little wave.

<"Come with me, please,"> the droid responded, in a bland, unpersonable tone.

  

He dropped the mask as he followed em into a corridor, the mirror of the ship he'd just left. One of the bunkrooms had been fitted out as a medbay. Poe eased himself into a very nice medical recliner. He gripped the handrests as the ships undocked, waiting for turbulence that never came. It was a smooth departure, but his stomach squirmed nonetheless as he was severed from the friends he'd made over the last few days.

<"I require a blood sample, please.">

"No problem."

He'd been through this enough times to recognize the general layout of the holo graph that popped up a minute later.

"Lemme guess. My electrolyte levels are adequate, but I could probably use some sugar. My cortisols are running wild and you'd like to offer me a sedative."

<"You are entitled to a sedative.">

"How long is this flight?"

<"You are entitled to a sedative.">

"No, thanks."

The droid bleeped in accord, and turned to gather materials. Poe strained his ears for any sounds of life or activity outside the room, but heard nothing. He pumped his hand a few times and stretched it out, revealing easy veins, and the droid sank a new drip.

<"Your cooperation is appreciated.">

"What's your name, bud?"

<"MN-507-S.">

"What do the crew call you?"

<"MN.">

"Okay, MN. Call me Poe."

<"Do you require entertainment, Poe?">

"A briefing would be nice."

<"A variety of fictional entertainments are available. Romance, adventure, humour, historical drama, tragic drama, comedic drama. Humour is most popular with passengers.">

"What about music? Something soothing."

<"The _Adagio in Carbonite_ is popular with passengers.">

Poe stared at MN in dismay.

"Why would anyone want to... don't you have anything a little more, you know, uplifting? Hopeful?"

<"Endorran victory anthems are also popular.">

"Huh... you know, my dad used to listen to Endorran folk music. They had a had a whole thing about... rites of passage?"

MN interfaced briefly with the ship, and then gentle percussion streamed into the room.

"Yeah, this works. Thanks, MN."

<"Shall I remain? Or do you prefer privacy?">

Normally, Poe would try to get some scuttlebutt out of a medical droid, but MN was _weird_. Or maybe he was just spoiled by Kalonia's droids. She was as much a stickler as he was for nurturing personality modules.

"No, I'm cool. If you've got other duties, you know."

<"Do you prefer privacy?">

"Sure."

<"I am at your call, if you require assistance.">

"Got it. Thanks, bud."

Poe closed his eyes in solitude and listened to the music. He remembered his childhood friends being excited to meet his dad, to ask him about the "cute" Ewoks, and the way Kes would shake his head at them. _They're killers, kid. In all the battles I was in, I never saw people so courageous in defending their homeworld. Motherfuckers will fuck you up. Oh, crap... listen, you didn't learn that word from me, okay?_

 

* * *

 

It was only a few hours until they docked again, and one of the crew came to fetch him. He grinned at Poe somewhat wildly; Poe kept waiting for him to blink.

"You this easy on the eyes back home, or'sit been too long since I seen a new face?"

"Uh. How long _has_ it been?"

"Ohhh..." The guy stared up at a corner like he was calculating, and then just... didn't come back. Poe gave him a minute, and then stuck out his hand.

"Poe Dameron. And you are?"

"Well, welcome to the Anomaly Monitor Array, Poe Dameron!" The guy grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together, and held on tight. "What's your posting?!"

"Dunno. They just sent me here."

"Isn't that always the way!!!" The guy squeezed their fingers together painfully hard. "I didn't know shit when they sent me here!"

"Yeah, I-- I don't know shit either. What's your name again?"

"Call me Raster. Cause I'm a _master_ , with a blaster. And I fly circles around the jerba dicks." Raster zoomed his other hand past Poe's face like an excited child.

"Jerba dicks?"

"The fuckin' prototypes."

Prototypes? Poe didn't dare hope that he'd been sent here to test-fly experimental spacecraft. That would be too good to possibly be true.

"Are they fun to fly?"

"No. Why, you a pilot?"

"Yeah. Starfighters. X-wings."

"Get out!!!" Raster looked positively thrilled as he danced them toward the main hatch. "Are you any good?"

"Yeah, I'm good."

"In a dogfight?"

"Fuck yeah, I am. Took down sixteen TIEs in one sweep at Takodana."

"Sweet!" Raster enthused, without comment on the _opening battle of the fucking war_. "It's gonna be fun having you around! Pretty much all we have to do around here is run skirmishes-- wait! Why'd they send you here? Do they think something's gonna come through, soon?"

_Through?_

"They didn't tell me much."

"Figures," Raster scoffed. "I bet something's up. You and me, though. We're gonna light 'em up, right, Dameron?"

"Yeah, fuck yeah."

"Yeah."

 

Raster guided him out into the hangar bay, where a dozen personnel were busily dissecting the fresh cargo.

"Look at 'em," Raster laughed. "We're like fucking ants out here! It's hilarious, right?!"

Poe watched a couple of personnel dig into the crates haphazardly, almost desperately. Others laughed with unwarranted delight as mundane supplies were tossed out. At least one person seemed to be taking calm inventory, until Poe realized she was just carrying things back and forth between crates, like she was _playing_.

"Yeah. Funny."

"You didn't manage to hide any booze in there, did ya?"

"I... didn't have anything to do with the cargo, sorry."

" _You know better_ ," Raster muttered to himself. " _But you're gonna look anyway, aren't ya, asshole_?" He dropped Poe's hand and wandered off to join the scrum, leaving Poe standing alone to consider his new surroundings. It didn't look much like a prison colony, but he couldn't help but think that it might just be a lunatic asylum.

 

He didn't have long to consider before a blue steel protocol droid approached him.

<"Captain Dameron, I presume?">

"That's me. And you are?"

<"Referred to as Gee-Null.">

"Gee-Null. Is that because you're genial?"

<"Not particularly. The Commander wishes to see you. Come with me.">

Gee-Null led him to a bridge, the most salient feature of which was an enormous, commanding viewport. Poe quickly took in the general clutter in the room. Files and toys seemed to live together on the shelves, and the Commander's desk was occupied by an intricate game in progress.

<"Commander Onaika. Captain Dameron to see you.">

"Thank you, thank you. Mind the hatch and don't let anyone disturb us."

 

The commander turned, and yeah, he looked a little crazy, too. He was well-kempt, but his eyes, his eyes seemed to roll back toward the viewport with a will of their own, even as the man leaned forward, trying to focus on Poe.

"Mutiny, huh?"

"It... seemed like the right thing to do at the time, Sir."

"Well, I hope so. What kind of asshole thinks they're doing the _wrong_ thing?"

"Good point, Sir."

Onaika consulted his palm as if it were a datapad.

"Disobeying a direct order," he chuckled, and shook his head. "And _not_ guilty of conduct unbecoming an officer. Well, that's nice. That's something."

"Something, yeah. I guess I should be glad they didn't kill me, right?"

The commander stopped laughing and looked at Poe skeptically.

"You _do_ have the sentence, there, right?" Poe gestured at the man's empty hand.

"Oh yes. Ten years at the penal colony at Rura Penthe, yes."

"Is... that where I am now, Sir?"

Onaika responded by laughing out loud.

"They didn't really... tell me, anything, Sir. I'm a pretty good navigator, and I've never heard of the place."

"I should hope not. Otherwise there's been a serious breach in security."

"Well, there has been. Obviously." Poe gestured vaguely behind himself, meaning where he'd come from, although he wasn't sure which actual direction the Hosnian system was in. Or, had been in.

"Don't tell me, don't tell me. Blackout protocol, you know."

Poe frowned.

"But-"

"You know the Empire _never even found out_ about the Anomaly?"

"Uh, good?" Poe sort of shook and nodded his head at the same time.

"I don't envy the poor souls trapped here, though. You know they resorted to cannibalism, near the end?"

"Shit. Uh."

"Ha!" The commander snorted again. "Pulling your leg, son. Kriff."

"Uh, ha," Poe chuckled uncomfortably.

"But seriously. Rule One. Information blackout."

"But what if you get orders that aren't from who you think they're from?" Poe asked in a rush, before the guy could shush him again.

"That's what the thinkin' machine is for!" Onaika rapped his skull hard, not _quite_ punching himself. "And the feelin' machine." He thumped his heart. "Flyin' clear of politics is how a good officer keeps an _even keel_." He stretched his arm out straight, as if taking a bearing. His gaze followed, staring at something off in the distance for a moment, before wandering back towards the viewport. Poe waited awkwardly to be noticed again.

"Hell, sit down, son, sit down. Make yourself at home. Don't _touch_ anything, but-- you know what I mean. Can I get you anything?"

"Whatever you're having?" And then he wished he could bite back the words, because it was entirely possible that this whole crew was pumped full of some kind of happy juice.

 

As it turned out, there was no juice of any kind in the little bronze gyroscope Onaika placed in his hand, as if he were handing him a drink.

"So! What do you know about the Zamael Event?"

"Zamael? Are we near there?"

"Near enough. You've never heard of the Event?"

"No, Sir."

"Good!"

"Can you... tell me about it?"

"Better! I can show you."

"Great, let's, please."

"Don't tell anyone, though. We'd have to kill you!" He laughed at his joke as he pulled an unlabeled file from a shelf full of unlabeled files.

 

"Zamael's like a lot of planets around here." Onaika waved his hand carelessly. "Jedi used to come in here. Thought they could learn something. Drove them batty! Right off their rockers." He twirled his finger next to his head. "But there have always been these...  _cultists_. You know the type?"

 "I do," Poe said sadly, blinking away the memory of the massacre at Tuanul that he'd been helpless to stop.

"Bricks like you and me, hoping to, you know, _touch_ something. Or get touched. They had a retreat on Zamael. Went and did their two weeks a year of silent meditation or whatever."

"Went? Past tense?"

"There were no survivors to say what really happened there. Near as we can tell, they tried to disarm them."

"Tried to disarm _who_?"

"Good question! You're a sharp one. It'll be a shame to lose you."

"I... don't intend to be lost, Sir."

"Of course you don't. This recording was found by the next bunch of pilgrims to show up. Expecting a quiet little spiritual retreat, and they found a pile of bodies. That musta been a kick in the pants."

"Must've, yeah. And when did this happen, exactly?"

"Never went in for that sort of thing, myself. Meditation and whatnot. More of a mechanical mind."

"Mm. Me too. Before the Empire, you said?"

"Long as you're gonna lose a few hours, might as well have something to show for it, you know?"

Poe glanced around at the odd little projects scattered about, and hummed again in neutral agreement.

"Real kick in the pants," the commander repeated, and fired up the projector.

 

  

The holo showed a group of a dozen humanoids, all apparently male. Half of them were of a race Poe didn't recognize. They were burly, long-haired and mustachioed and kitted out in soft armour, and they looked _pissed_. The others included two humans and a few other unknown races, in tattered clothing, looking like they'd faced Death itself and had nothing left to fear.

One of the burly guys stepped forward, holding a massive dagger. He pounded his fist against his chest.

_"I AM KANEG OF THE HOUSE OF WOLD, AND THIS IS A MESSAGE TO THE KLINGON EMPIRE!"_

"Whoa, pause. The what empire?"

"Klingon."

"Where the hell is that?"

"Another good question!" Onaika said, and resumed the holo.

 

 _"It is with a bitter and a vanquished heart that I address our demands not only to the Klingon Empire,"_ Kaneg sneered deeply, _"but to the United Federation of Planets as well."_ Disgust just radiated from the man's face.

"Federation?" Poe asked, but Onaika flitted his hand impatiently at the holo; he wasn't going to pause it again.

 

_"THERE IS NO HONOR ON RURA PENTHE! You thought you were clever, thinking you could punish your enemies without risking war, instead of embracing war as our fathers did. You thought you were clever, playing at their game of justice. You have succeeded only in debasing your own to their cowardly ways. There is no honor on Rura Penthe, and there is no justice, either. It is filthy, dishonorable, and corrupt. It has tarnished my soul to serve there. It tarnishes the Empire to maintain it. All who have served there must die, for no deeds can recover the honor they have lost. We wretched few have fought our way through the most unimaginable of obstacles to send this message... this DEMAND."_

Kaneg pushed the others forward one by one to recount tales of brutality, starvation and abuse in an underground prison on a frozen planet. The guards spoke in long, bitter allusions to their history, or perhaps their mythology. The prisoners, by contrast, bit their testimony out in incomplete bursts. But the hatred on their faces spoke for them. 

Poe could only compare their tales to those of the darkest years under the Empire on places like Kessel and Wobani. He felt bleak horror at the thought of even entering such a place.

Their story played out like some dark opera. The guards claimed that they had tried to keep a rein on the most disgraceful of abuses. They confronted their peers for the last time; weapons were drawn, and they cut their brothers down.

Not entirely dishonorable, Poe thought; it must have been difficult to make such a decision. But then the guards went on to describe the bladefight in florid detail, practically salivating over the blood they had spilled. He'd never seen anyone take such visceral delight in murder, no matter how justified.

They didn't _flee_ the scene, another guard insisted, but had escaped only in order to attain the nearest 'subspace relay'- apparently some colloquialism for an interstellar relay- and transmit this message.

Kaneg stepped forward again.

_"When Rura Penthe has been reduced to frozen cinder, we shall find peace with our own blades, but not before. We will gather, we will attack, and we will see that poisoned place annihilated and cleansed. Not for our own honor, which can never be restored, but for that of our sons, and your sons, and all the sons of the Klingon Empire. There is no so-called justice on Rura Penthe. And there is no honor there."_

 

The holo ended, leaving Poe stunned and blinking at the empty space where it had been.

He swallowed, and forced himself to speak, if only to prove to himself that he wasn't cowwed by what he'd seen.

"Well, shit."

 

* * *

 


	8. the commander

* * *

 

The galaxy was a big place, bigger than any single organic mind could encycle, bigger than any protocol droid could master. Poe knew he had blind spots. But he never would have become a spy for the Resistance if he hadn't already been keen on his cultural astronomy, and he'd never heard so much as a whisper of this Klingon Empire.

He valued his history, too, and he knew that no one had heard of the Chiss Ascendancy, either, before that fateful encounter on Batuu.

No, the last thing Leia wanted was for him to introduce some isolated, bloodthirsty, aspiring 'empire' into the heart of the known galaxy, no matter how valuable they might be as mercenaries. No... no, his mission was to find out whether the First Order was working with these people, yet. Of course. It was the only thing that made sense.

He blew out a long breath and slumped in his chair. He didn't love the odds of ever making it back to give that report, but it was a relief just to have finally figured out what he was supposed to be doing, here.

 

"So... where are these fugitives from, exactly?"

The commander was back to staring out the viewport again, and it took him a while to respond.

"Never had a convict, before."

"Yeah, that's what they told me on the transport."

"Only had one expedition, in my tenure."

"Expedition?" Poe perked up.

"Buncha scientists. Not much respect for a career military officer."

"Mm," Poe sympathized.

"Lemme tell you something, son. They ain't taking me back to Hosnian. I'll blast 'em if I have to. When my time comes, I'm going in."

"In?"

"Only seen it once, and I dream about it... slow, white fingers of light, takin' me to the other side... I envy you, you know. But my time will come."

"I see. You think it's a suicide mission, don't you?"

"Not suicide if they're making you do it."

"You see me resisting?"

Onaika finally turned. He looked Poe over with a face that said  _just how stupid are you, really?_

"Do I get to fly? Going in?"

"Hyperdrive's disabled."

"I can see why."

"No one's going with you."

Poe shrugged.

"You actually think you're going to make it."

"I do."

Poe watched a range of emotions cross Onaika's face, starting and ending with pity.

"Well, then. I suppose you'd better get with the chief."

The commander swiveled away again, resuming his watch.

 

 

* * *

 

 


	9. the eta

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Other than the prospect of immanent death within an unexplained astronomical oddity, things are kind of looking up for our hero.

* * *

 

The maintenance chief for the fleet housed on the primary battle station went by Click. She was a civilian, a former training officer for Incom. She'd only been here for a couple of years and seemed relatively sane. Poe asked her about the prototypes Raster had mentioned. She laughed and led him to Deck 3, where she presented two ungainly hulks with a wide flourish.

"Those are _spacecraft_?"

Click practically collapsed in laughter, watching him try to disguise the fact that he was positively offended by their design.

"Kriff, they do kinda look like jerba dicks."

"And balls!"

"...why?"

"They're based on the ship the fugitives arrived in."

"Oh. Wow."

"We decided their carriers must look like the backside of a big ol' cow in heat."

"Gross."

She cackled into his shoulder.

"Is that... what I'm supposed to fly?"

Poe knew he should be jumping at the chance, but they were _so_ kriffing ugly.

"No, no. They, uh. They fly. But probably not like they're supposed to. Expeditions usually take ARCs, but unless you're hiding a couple more arms under that jacket, you're probably going to have to take a fighter."

"A starfighter, huh?" Poe grinned at her, suddenly feeling a little space-mad himself. "Show me what you got."

 

  
She walked him up to the fighter deck. She was definitely eccentric, but not nearly as barmy as Onaika. She'd yet to see an expedition off herself, she said. The last one had been almost ten years ago.

"So... what is the Anomaly, exactly?"

"Beats me. I wondered about it when I first got here. People get weird when they try to figure it out. I try not to think about it too much. Just do my job. Keeps me sane-ish."

"Onaika makes it sound like a black hole or something. But it sounds like those guys came _out_ of it."

"The commander... he's been here a while."

"I gathered."

"He can get a little romantic about it. Way I see it, most hyperlanes took decades to chart." She shrugged. "This one's just taking a little longer."

"How long? When was the Event?"

"416 BBY."

" _Four hundred and fifty years ago_? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"It would be funny if I was! But I'm not."

"And it's been a secret this whole time?"

"Far as I know."

"Has anyone else come through? Did anyone come after the fugitives?"

"I don't think so?"

"Shit. How many expeditions have gone in?"

"Eleven organic. A shit ton of probes. Like, a hundred and something. I saw one go in, once."

"Yeah? What happened?"

" _Whoof_ ," she sighed, spreading her hands.

  


Poe whistled at the collection on the fighter deck. Every ship here was older than he was. The youngest in the lot were a quartet of A-wings. A couple squadrons' worth of Z95s, a couple of T-65s, and--

"You guys are flying Etas? They haven't even built those things in fifty years!"

"Amazing how they keep when you're not burning them through atmo all the time."

"I bet. Wow. What's it like? The whole accelerator ring thing?"

"Wouldn't know," she scowled.

"Right, right, it's disabled. Any chance I could take one for a spin?"

"We got a skirmish coming up."

"Yeah?"

"We always have a skirmish coming up."

"So I heard. Can I get in on it?"

"You any good?"

 

* * *

 

The other pilots drank him in with the same intensity as Raster. He quickly realized that there was nothing predatory, or even necessarily sexual, about it. He was like a pitten showing up on a playground; they were simply fascinated by the new being in their midst.

The Eta felt pretty stiff at first, but then, it was ancient. And Poe supposed it probably handled a little lighter in the hands of a Jedi pilot. He still had a blast, zipping around the six canon platforms that circled the battle station, exchanging blank laser fire with the rival squadron and whooping over the comms with his own team. It lifted his spirits beyond measure.

 

Some of the station crew continued to keep a wary distance from the newcomer, but after the skirmish, the pilots crowded around him. They declared an impromptu welcome party; someone broke out some rotgut barracks hooch.

They were devastated when they found out he wasn't staying. A couple of them cried. One stormed off toward the bunks, waving her arms and yelling at the walls. Poe felt terrible about it, but secretly he had to admit that he was glad he hadn't actually been posted here. Facing death in some astronomical oddity wasn't nearly as frightening as the thought of slowly watching his mind and personality unravel over the years, no matter how much he got to fly.

He couldn't even tell them why. He wasn't allowed to tell them anything, really, about the last five to ten years. Poe kept waiting for someone to break protocol and ask him what was going on in the galaxy, but no one did. So he regaled them instead with his teenage swoop racing antics. They loved it, but he suspected he could have expounded in detail on melon propagation and found just as rapt an audience.

  


* * *

  
In the morning, Click and her counterpart officer gave him his choice of craft to take into the Anomaly. He was attracted to the A-wings, of course. But while he was less superstitious than most pilots, he wasn't _not_ superstitious. Taking an A-wing seemed like he might be choosing to close the circle of his life prematurely. He didn't want to deprive them of any of their Headhunters, either, so he elected to take the same Eta he'd flown in the skirmish. After all, he'd already bonded with it.

They tried to get him into an EVA suit, but Poe was sure that Muran's jacket was the only armor he needed. The last thing he wanted was to end up alone and stranded, waiting for three days for the oxygen to run out. They piled some supplies and cold-weather gear into the spacious cockpit. If he didn't use them, maybe he could trade them.

"Just so you all know. I intend to make it. And I intend to make it back, too. So don't shoot me down when you see me again, okay?"

 

Even some of the wallflowers came out to see him off. He hugged people he hadn't even met. Click whispered _May the Force be with you_ in his ear, not quietly enough to avoid tuts from some of the others, and Poe didn't even want to know what that was about. Lastly, he held his arms out to Raster.

"Dameron departs! Like a cloud of farts, gone before we knew ye. To meet your fate in the stormy gate of heaven. Couldn't even _cling on_ for a full cycle. And all I get is a hug?"

Poe raised a brow and waited.

"It's called _a kiss for luck_ , Dameron. Improves your chances of surmival. Surb- survival. Proven fact. There's satissics to back that up."

The pilots wolf-whistled around them, so Poe wrapped his arms around Raster, sunk his fingers into his hair, and dipped him back for a firm, chaste smooch.

"I want the rest of that when you get back," Raster grinned.

"Next time," Poe winked. "Thanks for the luck."

He climbed into the cockpit and strapped himself in. The coordinates were already loaded. All he had to do was... go.

 

 

* * *

 


	10. the anomaly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adventure!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I know that fanfic Poe is generally smart enough to use an alias. But I'm pretty steeped in comics Poe, and _that_ guy is just like, _Hi, it's me! Poe Dameron, Resistance operative! I see you have me outnumbered. Apparently, your calculations have omitted the fact that I am the protagonist of this story._
> 
> I love that guy.
> 
> CW for vomit, sorry.

* * *

 

It was anticlimactic, at first, turtling through realspace on the Eta's thrusters toward the invisible object of fascination. Did it even exist, or was this whole thing some mass hallucination? And then the sensors alerted him to a massive object at a great distance. And then paused to recalculate. And recalculate.

And recalculate.

It was a glimmer at first, and then, just as Onaika had described, slim white fingers of light beckoned to his ship, opened to it. It was strange, like... like ramping up to hyperspeed and being stuck there, on the edge. As his eyes widened to something entirely novel to his experience, he felt like he might be joining the company of the great explorers. If his name ever made it into history, maybe it wouldn't be for Starkiller or Crait, but alongside the likes of Kallea and Hydia and Figg.

They were legends, driven by restlessness and ambition. Their efforts had made the galaxy smaller, and brought conflict and prosperity alike for the generations that followed. Would he be remembered as _Poe Dameron, the man who made the Unknown Regions knowable_? Or forgotten as one of the many who'd died trying?

The light wrapped gently around them and stretched out before him. It wasn't threatening; it was promising. It felt like destiny, and he saw something else in it, too. He saw in it a second chance. A second chance to hear what the Lightquake had been trying to tell him.

His hands loosened on the control. He asked for it, reached out to the Force, and it came to him. He was bathed again in the light, and it was so beautiful, so clear. So obvious. His life had had meaning because he had loved, and expressed his love, and acted in love, and died in love.

His hand drifted up to the necklace. The Light was in control of the ship, now. He stared into it. It was beautiful.

 

And then they lurched violently, and his hands flew back to the stick and clutched hard. There were no bearings to get, for they were suddenly surrounded by a lightning storm on all sides. His instincts guided him toward a dark patch, a calm pocket in the storm, only for the Eta to be ripped out of it by another greedy fist of lightning.

It was violent. More violent than the Wasp's Nest, even. If this kept up, it would shake him and the ship to pieces. He held on, scanning for the calm patches and making for them. Every time he nearly attained one he was grabbed and thrown back into the heart of the storm.

Just when he was really starting to get a handle on it, the shape of the storm started to shift instantaneously, like a glitchy holo. Or more likely, a glitchy brain. He'd trained for this, for micro blackouts. _Don't give in. Stay present_. He focused on the nearest dark patch and made for it with everything he had.  _Just give me a break_ , he prayed.  _Just give me a break_.

He made for the dark haven with every ounce of will he possessed, until he felt them bump and slide into a channel, a path that almost seemed to have a propulsion of its own. The Eta stopped shaking, and his hands loosened. He could hear himself muttering  _The Force is with me, the Force is with me_.

He almost relaxed, until the canal lurched them forward. Lurched them so violently, it was almost like being thrown through time itself. Lurched them again and again, until Poe felt himself getting very close to sick. He cut the thrusters and rode it, rode it like a kid riding a sled down the steps of a Massassi temple, until the channel calmed and the lightning receded, and he and the Eta were coasting in empty space.

 

Poe panted into the cockpit, realizing with some relief that he was too sick and in too much pain to be dead. He leaned over to spit out a mouthful of drool. He pushed down the bile and closed his eyes to skidding, spinning vision. He tried to find an angle for his head that didn't feel like an axe was splitting his skull. After a few breaths, he glanced at the nav display.

It was blinking several error codes.

But it wasn't just blinking into a blackened cockpit. Poe could dimly make out the consoles, and the struts around the viewport. Which meant he wasn't just hanging alone in the void of space, without so much as a chart to place himself on or an astromech to talk to. He was in, or near, a star system.

He could feel watery saliva welling again in his mouth. He'd never been spacesick in his life, and damned if he was going to start now. He panted in the recycled air and closed his eyes, waiting for the spins to subside long enough to punch in a survey request.

Before he had the chance, several sensor alerts bleeped. He blinked at the swimming display long enough to take in almost two dozen planets and moons circling a yellow dwarf. He rested his eyes again, and then tapped at the outermost planet on the display. Being off-chart like this meant waiting  _minutes_  for the sensors to survey the bodies remotely and tell him which, if any, resembled the frozen planet he'd been sent to. Minutes in which someone else might detect him, first.

 

Indeed, it wasn't long before something hailed him. He punched the first freq the ship offered. A high-pitched burst of static came across his comms.

"Hello?" He tried not to groan. "This is Captain Poe Dameron of the Republic. Do you copy?"

Another, longer burst of static. He tried another frequency.

"This is Captain Poe Dameron of the Republic. Do you copy?" He regurgitated _Friendly, Do you copy?_ by rote in a dozen languages, despite the fact that the problem was clearly one of technology. A different kind of modulation, or perhaps the Anomaly had damaged his comms. A third and fourth frequency were no clearer.

An alarm wailed plaintively, and then he felt something that made him sick on another level, sick in his heart: the gentle tug of a tractor beam. A couple of crescent planets swung into sight through the viewport, and then a space station, quite near. Unlike the ugly prototype spacecraft, it was elegant. He might have appreciated the architecture if he weren't so busy trying not to throw up.

The comms whined insistently as he was towed, not into a hangar bay but into a narrow slip, almost a tunnel. He'd never been claustrophobic before, either, but he had to get out of the fucking cockpit, he had to get  _out, now_ ; he was going to puke. He pawed at the safety harness with sweaty hands while the static whined in his ears--

 

And then the strangest thing happened.

The nausea seemed to evaporate, along with the headache. It was nice, like a hit of morphine in medbay, and then everything started to tickle. Not just his flesh, but everything; his bones tickled, his spleen tickled, his  _brain_  tickled. And he couldn't move.

Before his misgivings could sort themselves out, before the fear that he might have just stumbled into a Sith's lair could give itself full figure, his brain just stopped, stuck at  _curious_.

 

And then he was on his ass on the floor of the cleanest place he'd ever seen, like a surgical suite. And it was... quiet. He could hear the hum of power supply transformers, and the gentle bleeping of notifications from a console. There were objective sounds. But it just seemed... quiet.

And then the nausea was back with a vengeance; he rolled over onto his hands and knees and it all came up, chunks and liquid and bitter bile and stringy mucus. He panted over the mess until he was sure there was no more. He rolled away, onto his back, and oh, there was the bruising from the flight harness. His chest stung, his shoulders burned, his head was throbbing. He was lucky he hadn't broken his neck.

He threw his arm over his eyes to hide the spinning, and tried to breathe, tried not to wonder what what the hell had just happened. What terrifying new Force powers had just acted on him, and who might be wielding them.

There was a bleep,  _bee-doo_ , and a silent movement of air that meant some forcefield had just gone down.

 _No_ , he prayed.  _Just let me lie here for a few minutes. Just a few blessed minutes of peace before you process me or interrogate me or send me down to the surface for hard labor, whatever it is you're going to do to me. Please. Just a few minutes_.

 

But the voice that greeted him didn't sound like the men from the holo, or like any prison guard he'd ever encountered. It was friendly,  _cheerful_. He couldn't place the accent, yet somehow it seemed automatically warm and familiar.

"Hey there, friend. Rough trip through the wormhole, eh?"

 

* * *

 


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

 

Poe peered out from under his arm to see a man- a human man. Not in prison rags, but in rather nice pyjamas, looking at him with what appeared to be friendly concern.

"Sorry," he grunted, wincing in embarrassment. "Never happened to me before. I'd call a mouse, but." He held up his bare wrist, showing that his comm had been confiscated.

"A mouse?"

"To clean up-- I'm sorry." Poe fluttered his fingers in the general direction of the pool of bile. The man glanced at it, and back at Poe with one eyebrow arched.

"Well, I'm sure there's mice about on the station somewhere, but they don't exactly come when ye call them."

"Oh." Poe blinked, because the place was kriffing spotless. "Why... not?"

"Why don't the mice come when you call them?"

"Yeah."

The eyebrows sank into a furrow.

"If you don't mind. Looks like you had a helluva trip, there. Wouldn't mind seeing you to the infirmary. Make sure nothing got knocked loose up there."

For a split second Poe's flesh rippled with panic, remembering everything Finn had told him about First Order 'medbay' calls. But then, he had no idea what factions were in play out here. Who, if anyone, this system was aligned with. And he didn't really have a choice. It wasn't like there was anywhere to run. He didn't even know where his ship was.

The guy didn't seem to be treating him like a prisoner, so far. And...

...and he was so dizzy, and so, so tired.

 

"Sure. That's... probably a good idea. Thanks."

"Can you walk? I can beam you directly if ya need it, but I'd rather see you there myself."

Poe didn't quite understand the second bit, but he was sure he could walk.

"Uh. I can walk." He rolled to his knees and pushed himself up, and felt a fresh wave of nausea. The man touched a badge on his chest.

"O'Brien to Bashir."

_"Bashir here."_

"We've a visitor here, looks like he came through the wormhole sideways. Got a minute to check 'im out?"

_"Of course. Bring him in."_

"Thanks, Julian. O'Brien out."

 

Poe swayed and blinked, trying to parse any hint of malice from that exchange, and finding none. He wasn't really picking up anything from the guy, other than his overt concern.

"Miles O'Brien, Chief of Engineering. And you are?"

"Captain Poe Dameron of the Republic."

"Ah. And which republic would that be, Sir?"

Poe's heart sank. So much for possibly being in friendly hands. Still, he held his chin up.

"The Galactic Republic," he confirmed, with all the defiance he could muster.

"Ohh, the _galactic_ republic, of course."

There was no missing the patronizing amusement in the man's voice. Outrage flared in Poe's chest. They may have wiped out the capital and half the fleet, but they couldn't erase nine thousand years of history.

"We may be back on our heels, but I wouldn't make my bed with the First Order just yet, if I were you."

"Wouldn't dream of it," O'Brien agreed easily. "I bet they're real bastards."

Poe stared at him suspiciously.

"They are."

"Well, glad to know _you're_ on the right side of things, Captain. Let's not keep the doctor waiting, shall we?"

Poe gave him another wary look, but followed.

 

 

* * *

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case it's not clear: Poe has no idea he's in another galaxy. He thinks that he is most likely in the [Unknown Regions](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Unknown_Regions), a barely navigable fringe of his own galaxy.
> 
> We're finally at the point where we _should_ start to have a little fun. This phase of the story is meant to be somewhat farcical, but seeing as how Poe's POV is still pretty angst-y, I don't know how well that comes across?

* * *

 

O'Brien took him through a service corridor- a shortcut, he called it. Poe didn't sense any hostility from the guy, just a distinct sense of awkwardness. His stomach felt better as they walked, but he still felt disturbingly dizzy.

“Sorry for waking you up, man.”

The chief turned to him sharply, brows still furrowed in worry.

“You didn't wake me up.”

“Oh.”

“I was doing routine maintenance when we spotted you adrift. When you didn't respond to our hails, well. ”

“Yeah. Think my comms got fried back there.”

“I'll have a look at 'em with you, if you want. I'm just glad we beamed you out alive.”

“Beamed.”

“ _Transported_.”

“Transported. Right.”

O'Brien looked very concerned, and they stopped trying to make conversation.

...

 

At some point they left the service corridor for a more habitable space, and Poe was guided to what appeared to be a small bunkroom. He froze in the doorway, adrenaline spiking.

“I thought you said you were taking me to medbay.”

“Well... _yeah_.” O'Brien gestured around helplessly.

Again Poe studied him for any sign of malicious intent, but could see only worry and slight bafflement on his face. He took a small step into the room, prepared to defend himself if he needed to. He looked around at the soft, porous upholstery in the room, surely swimming with pathogens if this was, in fact, a medbay. He folded his hands at his waist and tried not to inhale too deeply.

O'Brien chuckled nervously and commed the doctor again.

...

 

The doctor, when he arrived, was very handsome, and Poe found himself subconsciously trying to scrub the bile from his teeth. _Way to make a first impression, bud_.

“Julian Bashir, Chief Medical Officer. What seems to be the trouble, er...?”

“Poe Dameron,” he said quickly, and shut his gross mouth again. He waited for the engineer to make another snarky comment about the Republic, but he just rubbed conspicuously at his forehead and repeated that the visitor had had a _rough trip_.

“Well, then, Poe- may I call you Poe?”

“Sure.”

“I'd like to take a few medical scans. Would you mind having a seat?”

Poe wrinkled his nose involuntarily at the maroon disease vector in the center of the room.

“Or... stand, I suppose.”

The doctor sounded mildly put out. His accent wasn't nearly as charming as the engineer's. High and cultured, not quite as arrogant as some of the senators he'd known, nor as clipped as Hux's, but upper fucking crust, for sure. It made Poe not want to cooperate, reflexively.

"It's clean," O'Brien insisted, picking up on Poe's expression. "Tell 'im, Doctor."

“Of course it's clean. The fabric is embedded with microconductive fibres. It's thoroughly ionized after each patient. Perfectly sanitary.”

O'Brien smiled at him indulgently, wiped a finger across the surface, stuck it in his mouth, and pulled it out with a pop, like he was tasting some delicacy.

“Oh.” Poe peered down to inspect the fabric; it was slightly shiny. “That's... wow, who thought of that?”

There was a bleep from the engineer's chest, and then _Kira to O'Brien_.

“Just a moment, Major.” O'Brien looked up. “I'll just, uh.” He gestured at the doorway and then followed his hand through it.

 

Major, huh? Poe had no doubt that the comm was about him. He'd managed to draw far more attention to himself than he would have liked, in pretty short order. On the other hand, he didn't appear to be in prison, yet, so that was a plus.

He supposed a lot could have happened in four hundred and fifty years. Perhaps the Klingon Empire had been vanquished by the Chiss, or perhaps he'd stumbled into some rebel outpost, some humans holding onto liberated territory. And if the latter was the case...

If the latter was the case, then the First Order would probably look like a pretty tempting ally. There was a good chance he was too late, that they'd already gotten to these people. In which case he would be doomed, not to Rura Penthe but right back into the clutches of Kylo Ren. He felt himself starting to panic, and touched his fingers together the way Rey had showed him. Closed his eyes and breathed.

 

They'd only had a couple of days together, before he was arrested. Their first conversation had been awkward as hell. She'd suggested he might be Force sensitive- that was a good one. And he-- he'd only meant to let her know that she could talk to him if she wanted. But somehow it had come out with him sloshing his tea as he toasted to them being _torture buddies_. He still wanted to cringe a little at how deranged he must have sounded. She seemed to appreciate the _buddy_ part, anyway.

A couple of days of shellshocked mourning and frantic signaling aboard the _Falcon_ , before they made contact with friendlies. She'd taken him aside and showed him what Luke had taught her, about calming and centering. It helped? He thought?

It helped now, to stop speculating about his whereabouts and just listen to his body for a moment. He didn't even try to reach out to the Force- those experiences in the Core had surely been exhausted delusions- but just breathed, and ran over his physical condition.

The muscle strain in his neck and shoulders would pass, and the bruising from the flight harness was hardly even worth noting. The only real concern was that the dizziness was taking its sweet time in passing. And the weird sense of quiet persisted, too. It wasn't unpleasant. It was just weird. Like everything on this space station was just slightly less _alive_ than it should be.

 _Don't speculate; observe_.

His father had tried to teach him that, and Leia had, too. _Don't work yourself up until you know what's going on_.

It was okay, so far. These people seemed friendly and hospitable. In fact, his only immediate failing was the fact that the handsome doctor had probably smelled puke on his breath. A shame, but too late to do anything about it. One less potential avenue for access, but one less vulnerability as well. He shrugged internally and let it go.

 

Until Bashir rounded on him, wielding a tazer.

 

* * *

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

 

“Whoa.” Poe put his hands up.

“It's a _medical tricorder_ ,” Bashir said dryly.

“What does it do?”

The doctor looked him over with undisguised worry. He opened his mouth, and then changed his mind.

“I'll show you.” He stuck his hand in front of the thing. It hummed and warbled, and he turned it around to reveal a small flat screen display. It was nothing like the nice, intuitive holo graphs Poe was used to. Worse, it was in a foreign alphabet, which didn't bode well for the mission in general.

But maybe... okay, some of those figures definitely looked like numbers.

“That doesn't say your heartrate is _forty-eight beats per minute_ , does it?”

Bashir smiled, clearly pleased, and looked down with patently false modesty.

“I suppose I'm fortunate that I've always enjoyed sports and physical exercise. And as Chief Medical Officer, one could even say it's my duty to model a healthy lifestyle. Fitness doesn't have to be a chore, you know. I like a good, rousing game of springball, myself.”

Well. That was... more than he had asked for. Very revealing. Not the tenor of someone with ill intent. Poe relaxed again and found himself smiling back at the handsome, if somewhat narcissistic doctor.

“Sure, hit me, doc.”

Poe held his hand out. Again, Bashir seemed about to speak, and stifled it in favor of an irritated little half-smile. He scanned Poe's hand- _wrbl-wrbl_ \- and showed him the display.

“Eesh. Sorry. I've-- kinda been under a lot of stress lately.”

“So it appears.”

“Yeah. Yikes.”

“The fact that your blood pressure is elevated in tandem with your heart rate indicates a normal stress reaction. However, you do seem a bit... disoriented.”

 _Yeah, you could say that_.

“I'd like to do a full medical scan, if that's alright.”

“Sure. Lead the way.”

“The... way?”

Poe gestured toward the hatch.

“No, er.” Bashir held up the little handheld scanner again. “Tricorder, remember?”

“Right. Tricorder, right. Do I need to...” Poe plucked at his collar.

“Er, _no_.”

“Right.”

“Maybe- take the jacket off. Do you have any biomechanical implants?”

“Nope. All original parts, right off the line.”

“Excellent.”

 

Poe wasn't sure if the exam bed was actually comfy, or if he was just that tired, but it felt real good to put his feet up and rest his eyes while the doctor scanned him.

“So what did I do to earn the personal attention of the Chief Medical Officer?”

“Well, it's been rather quiet around the station, lately.”

“And that's a... good thing?” Poe guessed.

“It means the peace is holding."

Oh, interesting. Poe filed that one away to ask about later.

“We've seen some biological survey teams off. But we haven't seen quite the level of traffic from the Gamma Quadrant we were expecting.”

Okay, this was very fruitful. Bashir was pretty chatty.

“How long were you there?”

“Where?”

“The... Gamma Quadrant.” The doctor frowned again.

Poe frowned right back at him, because _quadrant_ seemed like an awfully parochial term for the _rest of the galaxy_. It was probably a good sign, though. If these people's cosmography was really so limited, they were likely isolated out here. Maybe he had actually succeeded in reaching them before the First Order did.

 

O'Brien let himself back in, and paused at the sight of the mutual confusion on their faces.

“Everything okay, fellas?”

“I was just asking Poe how long he'd spent in the Gamma Quadrant.”

“Are you talking about everything on the other end of that--” It wasn't like any hyperlane Poe had ever seen, so he just mimed the action of steering through the Anomaly.

“The other end of the wormhole, yes.”

“How _long_? My whole life.”

“Your whole _life_? Are you saying there's a Terran colony out there?”

“A what colony? No, I grew up on Yavin IV.”

“Yavin...” O'Brien thought aloud. “Where's that?”

“ _Where's that?_ ” Poe sat upright, and immediately regretted it, feeling dizzy all over again. “Where's the fourth moon of Yavin? Are you kidding? First Death Star ring a bell?”

“ _Death_  star???”

“As in the _destruction of_? The first significant blow against the Empire? The battle that turned the tide of the Civil War?”

“What empire?” O'Brien asked, even as the doctor shook his head slightly.

“Are you saying none of those expeditions made it through? Am I... am I the first one to make it through the Anomaly alive?”

“No, Poe,” the doctor said gently. “We've had other visitors from the other side.”

“And none of them told you about the Civil War? The Empire? The kriffing Clone Wars?”

O'Brien rubbed his forehead again, and glanced none too discreetly at Poe.

“I'll tell you what.” Bashir's voice was still gentle. “Let me finish these tests. You can fill us in when you're feeling a little better.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Poe laid back again. After that there was no more chatting, just the _wrbl-wrbl-wrbl_ of the medical tricorder.

 

“So?” O'Brien asked, as the doctor frowned over the results.

“According to this, Poe, you _don't_ have a concussion.”

“Great.”

“No sign of inflammation, infection, stroke, tumor, plaques or prions.”

“Super great.”

“In fact, other than the contusions-- which I take it are from a flight harness?”

“ _Oh_ yeah.”

“Other than those, and a veritable flood of stress hormones, you actually seem to be in excellent physical condition.”

“What do you mean, _actually_?”

“If you don't mind, I'd like to do a toxicity screen. I promise, the results will remain confidential. Neither Starfleet nor the Bajoran security force is entitled to medical records for law enforcement purposes without your consent.”

 _Starfleet, Bajoran security force, now we're getting somewhere_.

“Wait. You think I'm... _on_ something?”

“I just want to rule out any unwitting exposure. There are all sorts of substances out there, right, Chief?”

“Oh yeah. Interstellar pollen, psychoactive entities.”

“ _Psychoactive entities?”_

“Like the Pah wraiths, for one.”

“Alright, Chief.”

“Just saying.”

“Poe. Would you consent to a confidential toxicity screen?”

“Of course.” He started to roll up his sleeve.

“What're you doing, man?” O'Brien asked, and the doctor turned away from his console to stare at Poe's bare forearm. It was then that he realized that the men's uniforms- the ones he'd mistaken for pyjamas- stretched from ankle to wrist; even the collars were high. A modest culture, apparently.

“Sorry, sorry.” He pulled the sleeve back down. “I thought you needed a blood sample.”

“With a _needle_?” Bashir asked, evidently scandalized.

Poe shrugged helplessly.

“A _steel syringe_?”

“Oh, come on, Julian. They put them in combat kits, in case of EMP disruption.”

“But!” The doctor seemed genuinely aghast. “I know that until very recently it took _years_ to get to the Gamma Quadrant, but steel syringes have been obsolete for over two hundred years! Just how bad is it out there?!”

Out there? They were _out there_ right now, wherever they were. Okay, he _had_ to get in front of a star chart.

“Pardon my outburst, Poe. When you're feeling better, I'd like to talk to you about setting up some teaching clinics in the Gamma Quadrant. Needles, honestly!” Bashir huffed again.

“Don't mind him.” O'Brien rolled his eyes. “He gets very _passionate_ about medicine.”

“Well excuse me for _caring_.”

 ...

 

When the tox screen came back clean, Bashir smiled ruefully.

“I'm afraid I have no choice but to give you a clean bill of health.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, doc.”

“But to be frank, Poe, I'm a bit worried about your state of mind.”

“Ah, Doctor,” O'Brien cut in. “Have you considered prescribing chicken soup and a good night's sleep? Oldest remedy in the book.”

“My thoughts exactly, Chief. We can arrange quarters, Poe, but seeing as how the facilities are happily underutilized at the moment-- it would put my mind at ease if you'd remain in the infirmary for the time being.”

It took Poe a beat to register that the doctor was _asking_. He had to admit that he held a grudging nostalgia for the way Kalonia would revoke his flight clearance with a flick of her finger. _Eight hours bedrest. That's an order_. He looked around at the room that he'd initially taken for a bunkroom. It was very comfortable, and he was very tired.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Excellent, thank you.”

O'Brien was entering something into a console on the wall.

“Not a vegetarian, are you?”

“Not when I can help it.”

O'Brien chuckled, and a moment later placed a steaming bowl beside the bed. Poe squinted at the console.

“Is that a _soup dispenser_?”

The two men exchanged a look that said _you wanna take this one_?

“Eh, something like that,” O'Brien muttered. “I've got to get back to work. Get some rest, and I'll have a look at that comms system with you in the morning.”

“Thanks, Chief.”

 

 

Poe sipped a disappointingly bland soup while the doctor finished his notes. He had approximately six thousand questions. Who were these people? What did they know of the rest of the galaxy? Did the Klingon Empire still exist? What was this _peace_ the doctor had mentioned, and what had preceded it? Was “beaming” a Light Side power, or a Dark one? Who was in charge, here?

But before he could begin to make sense of any of that, he needed to settle the question he'd been asking since the moment of his sentencing: _Where the hell is this place_?

“Hey, doc. Any way I can get a look at a star chart? My nav system was kinda malfunctioning back there.”

“Oh. Er, certainly. I'm sure I could requisition a portable console.”

 _Finally_.

“I'll have to track one down.” The doctor paused. “In the meanwhile. You said you've been under some stress.”

“You could say that.”

“In my professional opinion,” he said gently, “a couple of ccs of diphenylmethane does wonders for full night's rest. And a full night's rest does wonders for pretty much everything else.”

“I'm guessing that's a sedative?”

“A mild one, yes.”

Poe sighed. He'd been hearing that a lot, lately. And there was no way he was getting to sleep while he was waiting for this requisition to come through.

“Why not. Sleep sounds good.”

 

At this point, he wasn't even startled when the doctor pulled out something that really, _really_ looked like a pistol.

“Do all your medical implements look like weapons?”

Bashir considered the device in his hand.

“Well. Inasmuch as they're ergonomically designed for the human hand, I suppose they do.”

He smiled at Poe more brightly than he had since the comment about his heart rate, enough to make Poe once again regret the scum on his teeth. He pressed the not-a-gun to Poe's bicep- right through his shirt- and there was a sharp puff of air, nothing more.

Poe waited to see if there was more to the procedure, but Bashir just reclined the bed, took the empty bowl- seriously, where were all the droids around here?- and dimmed the lights.

“If you need anything, just ask.”

Poe blinked foggily.

“Ask who?”

“Ask the station computer.”

“Right.”

Already, his eyelids were too heavy to lift. For a moment he was dreaming of asking his questions to the soup console, of flying the little exam room around like a spacecraft, flying it to the bridge or throne room or wherever the answers were...

And then he was _so_ comfortable, and everything was fine.

 

* * *

 

Julian stepped out to find Miles assuaging a characteristically impatient Kira Nerys.

“How's he doing?”

“Sedated.”

“Why?” Kira wanted to know. “What did he do?”

“He didn't _do_ anything. He was quite cooperative, actually.”

“So why did you sedate him? We have questions about that ship! It's not in the computer's database. There's nothing _like_ it in the database!”

“You weren't going to get any straight answers out of him, not in the state he was in.”

“What state is that?”

“He's... addled, Major.”

“Disoriented,” Julian corrected.

“Going on about talking mice and _death stars_.”

“Death stars?” Kira made a face.

Miles shrugged.

“I promised to look at a star chart with him in the morning. I don't think he knows where he is.”

Kira made a suspicious little growl, like she didn't think that was a good idea.

“And while we're at it, I'll try to find out where _he's_ from.”

“I guess that's as good a place to start as any,” Kira relented.

“I'm not going to _interrogate_ my patient for you, Major. But yes, that would be a good place to start.”

“All right. But keep me informed.”

 

 

* * *

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

 

As Leia Organa's most trusted operative, Poe Dameron was no stranger to waking up in new places. He usually knew exactly where he was, even as he surfaced. He'd spend a few seconds assessing whether he had the luxury of burrowing into whatever bedding he was in for another twenty minutes of shuteye, and almost invariably came to the conclusion that he did.

This mission was no exception. He knew before he opened his eyes that he was in a weirdly nice private room in a medbay (who outfits a medbay in _maroon_?) on a space station, probably in the Unknown Regions, where he was _pretty_ sure he wasn't a prisoner. That he'd been treated with hospitality, including a very helpful sedative. He blinked and found that the lights had been turned up again. He rolled over under a light, velvety blanket that had appeared at some point, and discovered that maroon notwithstanding, there was at least one constant in medical bed design: they weren't made for lying on one's side.

He also had to pee like a kriffing gualaar. He got up cautiously, remembering the nausea after his strange journey. It was... better. He wasn't dizzy, exactly. But something was still just... off. It felt like an aspect of the quiet, of the strange, muted atmosphere. Like he couldn't quite sense his surroundings fully, like a Loth-cat without its whiskers.

 

There didn't seem to be any holo interface in the room. There was the soup machine, which he might just investigate after dealing with priority number one. There was also the old flat-screen console the doctor had entered his observations into. It was on standby, dim but for the outlines of a few blank fields. Poe poked at it experimentally.

{ **Authorization code required.** }

He jumped back at the sound of a clear, disembodied voice.

“Whoa, sorry. Just looking for the fresher.”

{ **Define fresher**.}

“I need to.. urinate?”

{ **A restroom is located in the adjacent corridor**.}

“Great. Thanks.” He looked around for the source of the voice. Not finding any obvious interface, he just ducked his head politely toward the console.

 

Even if he still had a comm, it probably wouldn't register here, so he tried waving his hand in front of the sensor by the hatch. It opened without challenge, and he ventured out. There were no guards, but a moment later someone in an even more pyjama-looking uniform came around the corner.

“Mister Dameron. Good morning.”

“Hi. Sorry. I just need to pee.”

“A good sign. Doctor Girani Semna; you can call me Doctor Girani.”

“Doctor Girani. Thank you.” Gods, his mouth was gross.

“You were out for a good long time. Feeling any better?”

“Better, yeah. Thank you. You don't have anything I could wash my mouth out with, do you?”

“Of course.”

She led him to what appeared to be a living replica of ancient Corellian sanitary facilities, and handed him a packet.

“Take your time. Doctor Bashir wants to follow up with you. I'm going to tell him you're available, if that's alright.”

“Course. Thanks, doc.”

She left him alone to figure out the facilities- which, thankfully, functioned pretty much normally, even if they were styled after something out of an archaeological site. The packet was full of enough hygiene supplies- including a flimsy pair of sandals- to make him wonder just how long they intended to keep him here. But for now, he was grateful just to get his teeth clean enough to face the handsome doctor without shame.

 ...

 

Bashir had been true to his word, and brought a portable data display. Unfortunately, it too was a flat-screen device. After determining that Poe's vitals had improved somewhat overnight, and that he had slept comfortably, thank you, they sat down to look at it together.

It was extraordinarily frustrating. Every nerve in his body had been primed to relax on finally finding out where he was, but the primitive display told him less than nothing.

A blue beacon indicated the location of the space station Deep Space Nine. But the chart upon which it glowed was a hopelessly inaccurate map of the galaxy. It was distorted into an ovoid and showed two strong arms trailing off into wisps, instead of the familiar bands of the mid and outer rims. According to the closest approximation that he could _possibly_ allow for, the Bajor system wasn't in the far western fringe known as the Unknown Regions, but firmly in the Western Reaches. And he had spent _way_ too much time in the Western Reaches recently; surely he would know about an inhabited system like this one.

“So, just to try to place us, here, how far are we from Bespin?”

“Bespin? Never heard of it.”

“Mustafar?”

“Er, sorry.”

“Kriff, okay. Let's start with the basics.” Poe zoomed in to the Core. “Where's Coruscant?”

“I'm sorry,” Bashir repeated, somewhat sadly.

“You know, Coruscant? It was the galactic capital for _nine thousand years_?”

Bashir's shoulders slumped, and he looked away with defeat on his face.

“I'm sorry, Poe. It seems we're... not on the same map, so to speak.”

“No shit.”

 

Okay. One, he needed to learn to read this writing system. Two, he needed access to an actual holo display. Three... no, nevermind. One and Two were enough of an order for now.

 

“How about this, Poe. Can you show me where _you're_ from?”

“Approximately, I guess.” He scowled at the thing and pointed to the mid-northern region of the chart. He wasn't prepared for the man to jerk away from him, as if physically repulsed.

“What?”

“That's the _Delta Quadrant_.”

“Okay.”

“That's _Borg_ territory.” Bashir's face was contorted with something like horror.

“Borg?”

Bashir answered by inching away and looking Poe over with fresh suspicion, scrutinizing his body.

“Never heard of 'em. Honest.”

“I don't know how, but pray that you don't.”

“I'll take your word for it.”

Bashir looked him over again, and then stood up to pace. He rubbed his chin with his thumb as he thought.

“Did your parents ever talk about Earth?”

“Of course, we were farmers.”

“I mean-- the _planet_ Earth.”

“Someone named a planet after dirt?”

“Er... I suppose."

“Huh. Creative."

"To be fair, I'm certain a great many worlds have been named for the solid ground beneath the feet of their earliest inhabitants." It didn't take any special sensitivity to recognize the defensive, almost snippy tone in the doctor's voice.

"That where you're from?" Poe guessed.

Bashir stared at him for a few beats before answering.

"It is. And no one ever mentioned it to you?"

Poe shrugged apologetically. Bashir shook his head, looking dejected, and resumed his pacing.

“Look, doc, it's like you said. Seems like we're not on the same chart, here.”

“No, perhaps we're not.”

“Any way I can get a look at a holo display?”

“A _holo_ display?”

“I mean.” Poe could only gesticulate inarticulately at the puny, primitive flat-screen display.

“A planetarium program?” Bashir considered it and shrugged. “If you think it might help. I'll make an appointment with Quark for a holosuite. It certainly can't hurt. We _are_ going to figure this out, Poe.”

“Thanks. And-- it would probably help if I could, uh. Read this thing.”

“Oh. You can't-”

“I'm not kriffing illiterate. Just not familiar with your writing system.” Poe fingered the label for BAJOR. “Point out a few more objects on here, and I'll work it out.”

“Of course!” Bashir straightened suddenly, struck by inspiration. “The school!”

Poe had to laugh at the thought of himself sitting in the back of a schoolroom full of children, but he was game.

“Sure, man. I'll go to school.”

“Well, no. I'm afraid it's been shut down, over cultural differences. To the great detriment of civic life aboard the station, in my opinion. But the primer modules must be stored in the computer somewhere. And I know just the woman to ask!”

Poe cocked his head.

“Chief O'Brien's wife Keiko started the school. And I believe you're to meet him to look at... some sort of repair?”

“Comms, yeah.”

“Well, then!" The doctor was chipper again, practically quivering at the prospect of closing in on an actual solution to their impasse. "It seems we're up a blind alley with the navigational console, wouldn't you say?"

"Seems like," Poe agreed.

"Shall I let him know you're available?”

“Please, yeah.” The sooner the better; there were ration bars on the Eta. Poe couldn't help a subconscious glance at the soup machine.

“Of course, you must be famished.” The doctor tapped his comm badge. “Bashir to O'Brien.”

_“O'Brien here. What's up?”_

“Chief, how soon can you meet us at the replimat?”

_“On my way there now. O'Brien out.”_

 

* * *

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let us not dwell on breakfast. The experience of a grown adult, proficient within their own sphere, using a food replicator for the first time is well-trodden ground. Suffice it to say that Poe Dameron has seen some shit in his 32 years. He's seen a glowing egg, guarded for decades by a reclusive cult, hatch into a flying dragon. He's seen Kylo Ren stop a bolt of plasma in mid-air. Hell, he saw Luke Skywalker project himself across the galaxy.
> 
> He has seen those things.
> 
> But the warmth and taste and texture of a buttered muffin, gushing with semi-molten berries, conjured from thin air? The gurgling movement of matter in his stomach? The lingering traces of butter on his fingertips? Breakfast blew his fucking mind.

 

* * *

 

The lift to the docking ring was an uncomfortably long one. Poe stuck his hands in his pockets to keep himself from sniffing his fingertips, but he kept licking the crumbs from his teeth, convincing himself again that the food was real. O'Brien was clearly more guarded than he'd been at first, but he put up a good front of chattering innocuously about what might have happened to Poe's comms in the wormhole.

That was another thing. Wormhole? He'd heard the term enough times now that he was starting to accept it, but. His passage into the Anomaly had been the most powerful experience a meat puppet like himself could ever hope to have with the Force, something truly mystical and transcendent. Calling it the _wormhole_ just seemed... sacrilegious, almost.

 

“Ah, here we are.”

O'Brien led him through an anachronistically heavy airlock safety to a terminal, and then to his docking slip. Poe was so relieved to see the Eta again that he trotted right up to it and petted the frame of the viewport fondly.

“Married to her, are ye?”

“I suppose.” _We actually just met a couple days ago. But it's all I've got_.

“She's a interesting little thing, that's for sure. Ah... what's her make?”

“Kuat, pre-imperial. It's gotta be sixty if it's a day.” He smiled proudly, leaning against the fabled ship.

“Kuat,” O'Brien repeated. He nodded, filing that away. “And the model?”

“Eta-2 Arctis.” Poe felt himself beaming with pride, despite the man's increasingly apparent ignorance. “Otherwise known as the Jedi Interceptor.”

“Jedi Interceptor. Okay.”

“As in an interceptor flown _by_ Jedi. Not. You know.”

“The thing is-- I don't know, actually. Should I?”

Despite his still-fragile trust in O'Brien, Poe was- well, he was miffed. He'd always wanted to fly an Eta, and when he finally got the chance, he hadn't just _flown_ it. He'd piloted it through the most death-defying run of his life. He should be bragging with his buddies, not facing down this mild-mannered skepticism. Honestly, it didn't really seem fair.

“Yeah, you probably should.”

“Huh. Lemme ask you something, Poe. Do you drink at all? Alcohol, that is?”

“Occasionally, yeah. And buddy, this whole... _thing_ is a kriffing occasion.”

“Alright then,” O'Brien chuckled. “1800? You and me. You can fill me in on the Terran history of the Gamma Quadrant.”

“Sounds good. So. Comms check?”

...

 

They tried. The Eta's self-checks were all go, unfortunately. They took turns exchanging static with an assistant in the engineering room, running through every shared frequency. It was clearly a more systemic issue.

“I'd like to do a modulation analysis, if you don't mind.”

“Yeah, a mod scan would be the next step, here,” Poe agreed. It was the next logical step in troubleshooting. So imagine his surprise when the being that responded to the Chief's request was not an astromech, but a young engineering mate wheeling a cart, bearing a bench box and a bundle of cables.

“Wow, you guys are big on the personal touch, huh?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

It meant something like _you're probably right not to trust me around your droids. I've been known to sway their loyalty_. Him and his smart fucking mouth.

“I just mean-- thank you. For taking so much time to help me.”

“Uh-huh. Well, help us both by telling me you've got a way for any of _these_ ,” O'Brien jerked his thumb at the cables, “to interface with  _that_.”

Poe could see from where he was standing that none of the cables bore a universal data probe. But there was always the chance of a back door though one of the expansion ports, so he sat in the hatchway and rifled through the connectors. Not a one looked remotely familiar.

“I don't suppose you have, like-”

“One of these?” O'Brien leaned back in the pilot's seat and held up a small device.

“Pin reader?”

“You know it.”

“We might need to fabricate something.”

“Call it the personal touch.”

“I'll translate the schematics?”

“I'll translate the output.”

They smiled at one another, sharing the nerdy little spark of excitement that came with sensing a solution to a difficult puzzle. They were speaking the same language, even if their machines weren't.

 

It didn't last long, though. When Poe brought up the schematics, it was a good thing O'Brien was already sitting down.

“ _Bloody hell_.”

“What?”

O'Brien waved his fingers through the holodisplay, wide-eyed.

“It's three-dimensional.”

“Uh. It's a representation of the ship's circuits, so.”

“It sure is. Does it...”

“Chase a spark?” Poe was acutely aware of the disabled accelerator ring showing up as a dim violet among all the pale blue, so he zoomed in on the comms block. He disconnected the hand mic, the only thing he could really reach from where he was sitting.

“Now refresh the display.”

"Ahm."

Right, O'Brien couldn't read Aurebesh, either. Poe swiped it himself, and red snaked through the schematic, each circuit turning blue in turn until only one red loop remained.

“Well, I'll be damned.”

Poe plugged the mic back in and refreshed again, clear blue this time. O'Brien shook his head, looking somewhat off in his imagination.

“You know that I've been to tenth century Clontarf? The Battle of Britain, the fecking _Alamo_? And it never even occurred to me. Or ta anyone else, as far as I know. This is fecking brilliant, Poe.”

“Ha. Now you know how I feel about your food replimators.”

“Replicators.”

“Replicators, right.”

They sat in silence for a while, taking it all in.

 

“I don't think there's anything wrong with your comms.”

“Starting to suspect that myself.”

“You really are from another civilization, aren't you?”

“I mean.”

“Huh.”

O'Brien swiveled the seat and scanned the interior. It was a spacious cockpit for a fighter, but it couldn't really pass for anything but one. He looked at the cold weather clothes donated by the crew of the AMA, and the bare few days' supply of rations. He looked at the utter absence of any cartographic equipment or weaponry. He looked back at the blank panels on the dash, where the hyperdrive controls should have been.

“Can I ask you something, Poe?”

“Of course.”

“You seem like... a nice person.”

“Kriff, I hope so.”

“You don't seem to mean any harm, here.”

“I don't! No, no harm.”

“But this ship of yours, this Eta-2-Arctis.”

“You can just say Eta.”

“This Eta, then. Not the ship I would take to scout unknown territory.”

“Oh?”

Yeah, oh. Oh, _shit_.

"You're lucky you showed up when you did, you know. Keiko's about to leave for a survey."

"I'm really grateful for her help."

"She's away more than she's home," O'Brien grumbled, and then brought himself back to the conversation at hand. "Point is, you should see their vessel- practically a freighter. Four crew, and packed to the rafters with... I don't know. Shovels and tweezers, I guess. Growth media, isolation chambers. Narrow spectrum diodes... I don't know. I'm not a biologist."

“I'm not a scientist, either. Just a pilot.”

“Uh-huh.”

Poe shrugged, trying to look innocent. He resisted the urge to scratch his neck, because if his dismal sabacc record had taught him anything, it was not to scratch his neck when he was caught out.

“It looks a lot like a disarmed fighter, to me.”

“It's... retrofitted.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I needed something nimble to get through the- the wormhole.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I'm lucky I ran into _you_ guys. I didn't know where I was gonna come out. Drop out in the wrong place, and I woulda been toast.”

“See, that's what I'm tryin' ta ask, here. I'm looking at your ship, I'm looking at your supplies. And I'm asking myself, did this person actually volunteer for this voyage.”

Oh, fuck it, he was scratching his neck anyway.

“I don't know if 'volunteer' is... _exactly_ the right word.”

 

The visitor looked away and scratched his neck in a painfully obvious display of discomfort.

“It's alright, Poe. You wouldn't be the first penguin to come through.”

“Penguin?”

Miles twaddled his fingers and made a shoving motion, _you know, penguins pushing each other off the ice_? But it got nothing but a blank, mystified headshake.

“What I mean is, you're safe here.”

Poe-- Miles had dropped the _Captain_ pretty quickly, not wanting to sound like he was making fun of someone suffering from a brain injury. He was starting to suspect that the guy was actually in his right mind after all, but so far he hadn't objected to the familiarity-- Poe just blinked at the illegible controls of his ship.

“We'd like to know more about where ye've come from, of course. But there's no pressure. Unless there's someone on your tail.”

“No.” Poe huffed. “No one's coming after me.”

“You're sure?”

“Yeah. They're pretty sure I'm dead.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well.”

“Yeah.”

Well, hell. Miles hadn't actually intended to start interrogating the guy. He was just curious. He was a Starfleet engineer, of course he was curious. But anything he could learn now was something Odo wouldn't have to ask later, so...

“You don't have to tell me, but I've gotta ask. Was it a matter of drawing the short straw? Or... someone's idea of an execution?”

Poe squeezed his eyes shut, and hugged his knees to his chest.

 

* * *

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's pretty indulgent to have, like, everyone's attention directed at Poe here. There should probably be some fanfic analogue of the Bechdel test, where _someone_ has at least _one_ conversation that's not about the author's fave. In my defense, there have been plenty of Star Trek episodes through the years where the attention of the entire senior staff was occupied with the Guest Alien of the Week. In this fic, Poe is the guest alien.
> 
> I tried formatting Sisko's dialogue to capture his speaking cadence, but it just didn't come across on the page. You're just going to have to use your imagination.

* * *

 

 

“Well, Chief. You seem to have a habit of picking up strays.”

“He's not a _stray_ , Commander.”

“No,” Kira agreed flatly. “He's a _convict_.”

Sisko and O'Brien questioned her with raised eyebrows. Yeah, yeah, she supposed there was a possibility that this Dameron guy had escaped a regime as brutal and immoral as the one that had imprisoned her own family. But then again, she was living proof that oppression didn't necessarily make anyone any less dangerous. It often made them more so.

Either way, she wasn't betting the security of the system on Miles' overdeveloped sympathy. Still, she rolled her eyes, conceding the point.

“There's an old saying on Earth, Major. You catch more flies with honey, than you do with vinegar.”

“Does that- actually work?"

“Not... when it comes to flies." Sisko had that impish look in his eye, the one that said that he was about to lay down some cryptic wisdom. "My father always swore by stale beer, a slice of lime... and just a _dash_ of dish soap.”

"Well, that's a hell of a metaphor," Miles muttered.

“So what are you saying? We string him along, and hope we don't find out that he's been stringing _us_ along? Hope that some alien fleet doesn't come pouring through the wormhole when he gives the word?”

“I don' think so, Major.”

"Since Mister O'Brien seems to have a rapport with our guest, I suggest that he... maintain that rapport. Time and duties permitting, of course."

"Oh, and I've just buckets of time."

"I'm not asking you to chaperone."

"Look, I like the guy. Really. I'm taking him for a pint this evening."

"Well, you certainly have a type," Kira smirked. “I'll give you that much.”

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that he and Julian could pass for brothers."

"They could not! So all Terrans look alike to you now, do we?"

"Oh, no, Miles. You look nothing like either of them."

"Thank you! I'd say you look nothing like Vedek Yassim, but I'm a little irritated right now."

"Aw, Miles, I get it. Fighter pilot, looks good in a leather jacket. You just want to recruit him to the holosuites, to help defend the English Canal.”

"It's the English _Channel_. And I suppose they could be mistaken for- cousins, or something."

 

Sisko had this way of zoning out, half-lidded, when people were bickering pointlessly. Light flickered back into his eyes as Kira and O'Brien backed down and exchanged olive branches.

“So where is he now, Chief?"

"Keiko's working with him on a translation module, and then Dax is going to try to figure out where he's from.”

“He knows where he's from,” Kira scoffed. “How do you know he's not just looking for the fastest route to Federation Headquarters?”

“I don' think so. He seems to have a... distorted picture of the galaxy, astrography-wise. Could be very useful, for communicating with people we may encounter out there.”

“I'll tell you what else would be useful. I want specs on that ship. Fuel source, propulsion system, armaments. Top to bottom, nose to tail.”

“It _is_ a novel design,” Sisko murmured.

“Well, stick this in the computer and smoke it. Kuat shipyards, model Eta-2-Arctis, otherwise known as a _jedi interceptor_. Good luck with that.”

“Jedi?” the officers asked in unison.

“Beats me,” Miles shrugged. And then he added, with all the sarcasm that only a non-com _and_ a distinguished veteran could get away with, "I'll add it to the interrogation script."

 

* * *

 

  


 


	17. Chapter 17

* * *

 

Keiko O'Brien didn't have much time to spare for Poe, but they made the most of it, and he felt the same pleasant camaraderie of intellect with her that he had with her husband. She got right down to business, going over the _english_ alphabet and then programming a side table for him to draw in the Aurebesh characters. They identified all the ones that could generally be trusted to function as phonemes, and color coded the corresponding analogues. They colored those with simple special rules another way, and complex ones another, and she programmed little charts at the bottom for common diphthongs.

It was all pretty straightforward, at least as compared to, say, a mastery of Binary that he sometimes admitted to _himself_ was admirable. All he needed was a little practice. So she also granted him access to the school texts, arranged by proficiency level. There were first readers, with short, simple words and phrases, describing pictures that functioned as hints. Intermediate, with longer words and more diphthongs and special rules. Finally, she highlighted a few adolescent-age texts with content that he might find useful, like important milestones in Alpha Quadrant history, and brief cultural histories of Bajor and this _Earth_ that everyone kept talking about.

“So is Earth the capital of the Alpha Quadrant?”

Keiko answered with soft eyes and a smile that said _bless your little heart_.

“The United Federation of Planets is more of a cooperative organization.”

“Oh.”

“But yes, Federation headquarters is located there.”

“I see.” How civilized. The New Republic was also supposed to be an egalitarian government... in theory.

“Let's try this one,” she said, moving on, highlighting a beginner text. Poe sounded out the title, _Too Many Tribbles_.

“Very good, Poe!” Keiko beamed at him as if he were a five-year old in her classroom. He was tempted to remind her again that he wasn't actually illiterate, but she caught herself.

“I'm sorry. Between Molly and the school, I guess I've developed a case of mommy voice."

"I'm okay with mommy voice," Poe assured her. After all, he'd been expecting those bloodthirsty Klingons and their brutal prison colony. She could be as patronizing as she wanted, as far as he was concerned. "I can't tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

“It's my pleasure, honestly.”

“I'd say I owe you one, but... I don't really... have anything.” Well, he had the thousand credits from Leia, but this wasn't the sort of thing you gave someone money for. He also had some very nice cards, though. “Do you all play sabacc, here?”

“Sabacc?”

“The card game?”

“I wouldn't know. Ask Quark; he's the one to talk to about gambling.” There was enough judgment in the word _gambling_ to tell him that Keiko would most likely not appreciate a card as a favor.

 

“So you're a betting man, then.” They both looked up at the new voice. It belonged to a tall, athletic looking humanoid in a Starfleet uniform. The glint in her eye suggested that she was, herself, an inveterate gambler.

“I'm not really any good. Just lucky sometimes.”

“Save it, hustler. I'm here to go over star charts with you. Jadzia Dax, Chief Science Officer.”

“Poe Dameron, star pilot. And, uh, beginner reader.” He gestured at the terminal.

“Don't be modest, Poe, you're doing _very_ well,” Keiko said warmly.

“Thanks. Really, I owe you one.”

“Well, I believe cultural exchange is its own reward. But since you're here, and I'm about to embark... can you tell me anything about Fenoth 7?”

“Uhmmm...?”

“Seventh planet in the Fenoth system? It's one of the planets we're surveying. It's so reflective that fly-bys can't tell us much.”

Poe shook his head apologetically. Okay, he was starting to feel deeply inadequate, here.

"All I can tell you is that I went in somewhere near Zamael.”

“Zamael?”

“I'm sorry. Listen, I'd never even heard of the-- the wormhole until a few days ago. And I've sure as hell never been that deep in the Core before.”

“What do you mean, _the core_?” Dax frowned.

“Of... the galaxy?”

The two women had a whole conversation with their eyes while Poe worried that he'd said too much. But if they were making regular expeditions through the Anomaly, they surely knew a hell of a lot more than he did. As far as _he_ knew, the fugitives were the only ones who'd ever made it through, four hundred and fifty years ago.

Keiko concluded the silent conversation with a sad, almost piteous little smile for Poe.

“Well, I've got to go meet my team, but it was very nice to meet you.”

“Thank you _so_ much, Keiko.”

“Well, if you really want to thank me. Translate _Too Many Tribbles_ into... Aurabash?”

“Aurebesh.”

“Aurebesh. And leave it for me to translate back when I get home. It'll be a nice little way to relax after a long mission.”

Wow, she and her husband really were a couple of nerds, weren't they?

“Will do, ma'am. Have a safe trip. May the Force be with you.”

Keiko blinked at him a few times, and then smiled fondly. “You, too, Poe.”

He watched her leave, feeling Jadzia Dax's gaze on him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her cock her head as if she were about to ask him something, and then dismiss it. Chief Science Officer, huh? Well, if she was anything like Statura ( _he's one with the Force, now_ , he prayed reflexively) then her help with navigation was going to take the form of a long, socially awkward, soft interrogation.

Kriff, he could really go for a caf before that.

 

“Heard you had a rough trip. You must be exhausted.”

“You reading my mind, or the lines on my face?”

Dax... giggled? Suddenly there was something friendly, almost girlish in her expression.

“I'm guessing they don't serve raktajino where you come from.”

“I'd say _never heard of it_ , but I've said that so many times today, I feel like I should stencil it on my chest like a name tag.”

Dax laughed again; she actually seemed somewhat charmed by his ignorance. She ordered from the replicator, and he blinked in continued amazement as a shapely ceramic mug materialized out of thin air. Okay, it smelled distinctly like caf, but--

“Oh, _wow_ , is that sweet.”

She laughed again and ordered him _raktajino, half-sweet_.

“Mm, perfect. So this is some kind of fancy caf?”

“It's... definitely caffeinated, yes. It's not really that exotic, though. It's just Klingon coffee.”

Poe blanched, and it was only his pilot's reflexes that kept the mug from slipping through his fingers and crashing to the floor.

“There must be thirty different coffee recipes in there.” Dax chatted blithely as she brought up a large nav display, much more detailed than the portable one Bashir had showed him. “Take my advice, and stay away from the shot of peppermint. Honestly, if Joseph Sisko knew what his grandson was putting in his mouth, he'd yank him right back to Earth and put him to work roasting hickory.” She cocked her head. “Or is it chicory?”

She finally settled on a view of the galaxy, and looked back over her shoulder.

“Poe?”

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
